City of Free Sail
Shepherd's Island
New World Colonies, Antillean Archipelago
Late Spring, Year 1621 A.A. (Anno Aeternus)

“.....ayùdame…” a voice croaked weakly somewhere on the rocks along the southwestern side of the island. The voice was barely audible over the crashing of waves against the shore, the low rustle of wind through the broad green leaves of palm trees, the squawks of seagulls.

The dying man that dragged himself onto the shore with one good arm prayed to Théus, to the Saints and Angels, that someone would find him before his strength gave out.

“...ayùdame…”

This stretch of rocky beach, too treacherous to land ships, was all but abandoned by the people who lived on the island. Had he washed ashore a hundred span or so in either direction, however, he would have been found almost immediately.

To the north was Pact Harbor, an enormous network of docks that hosted dozens of ships of all sizes at any given time. Everything from small one-man fishing boats to merchant freighters dropped anchor in Pact Harbor, and today that included the HMS Relentless, an imposing Albion ship-of-the-line that loomed heavily over the smaller vessels. Few on the island knew exactly what the Relentless was doing there beyond “Royal business,” and most knew it was better not to ask.

The Harbor was always a cacophony of noises, the creaking of ropes and squeaking of wheels and pulleys as cargo was loaded and unloaded from ships, the boisterous and casually vulgar banter of deckhands and longshoremen as they went about their work, the pounding of hammers and creaking of wood as crews repaired decks and hulls.

“...ayùdame…”

Just beyond the docks was the city of Free Sail itself. By the standards of the Kingdoms on the other side of the ocean it would be considered barely more than a small town, a few clusters of permanent buildings surrounded by a sprawl of shacks and shanties. Its small size, however, belied its tremendous importance as a neutral port of trade and diplomacy between the kingdoms of Albion and rival Castille, the mercenaries and adventurers they hire, and the pirates who prey on them.

Even in the early morning, Free Sail was alive with activity. Along the main street of the Via Amarilla, vendors and peddlers crowded the street, hawking wares of all kinds. Troubadours filled the air with music, earning coin with a song and a smile. And while most of their business came in the evening, the barmaids at Sally's Tavern offered hot food and cold drinks to passing sailors, and further down the way, the red lights of the Rose and Scabbard promised to save appetites of a different kind.

At the end of the road, two churches stood opposite each other, the grand and ornate Basillica de Santa Luisa, and the smaller and more austere Church of the New Day. Between them stood White Hall, an old manor house that had been converted to a courthouse and town hall. And the Grand Square that separated all three buildings was crowded with townsfolk, buskers, and street preachers, all save for the Scarlet Ring in the very heart of it- the Ring, everyone knew, was reserved only for public dueling. No one stepped into the Scarlet Ring without the intention of spilling blood.

“...ayùdame…” the dying man croaked again. Against all odds, a fisherman and his son walking along the beach caught sight of the man and began to run towards him.

Standing by the edge of the docks and next to White Hall on the far end of town were two wide sign boards, each covered in notices and posters. These had the names of contacts for sailors looking for work, as well as bounties promising rewards for the capture or killing of wanted criminals, escaped slaves, members of Los Vigilantes, and especially pirates of the Black Fleet.

ADVENTUROUS SOULS WANTED, read one such poster, to accompany an expedition into Aeternian Empire ruins on the Azul Islands. Handsome rewards and historical credit to those who assist in this bold enterprise. Contact Sir Edmund Lawrence at the Golden Cove Hotel for more information.

SWORDSMEN WANTED, read another, for the protection of Donna Elanora DiVacce from unsavory individuals. Must be an expert duelist- only those with a Mark of a fighting school will be accepted. Substantial pay, not-unsubstantial risk. Speak to Maria at the DiVacce manor for details.

A FISTFUL OF RUBIES read a crudely-written third, TO WHOEVER KILLS THAT BASTARD JIM SWANSON AND BRINGS HIS HEAD TO REGGIE DOBBS AT SALLY'S TAVERN.

“Ho there, young man,” the fisherman said to the dying man on the beach, “you just relax now, save your strength. I've sent my boy for help.”

“...La Reina Invencible…” the dying man said between ragged gasps. “...anoche…la tormenta….Ella se…estrelló…en la isla…”

“I don't know any Castillian, son,” said the fisherman, “but the Priest does. He'll be along shortly, just relax until-”

“¡El tesoro!...¡El tesoro!” the Castillian said, again and again. “..más tesoro del que…que puedes…imaginar…las leyendas…son ciertas…”

“What's this you say?” The fisherman didn't know much Castillian, but he'd been around enough sailors to know the word “treasure” in nearly any language.

“La Ciudad Dorada…” he said, holding out his hand with an almost insane desperation. “la…encontramos…”

Finally, the man's strength gave out, and his hand fell, opening to reveal a torn page of parchment, covered in strange symbols.

City of Santa Carlotta
New World Colonies, Antillean Archipelago
Late Spring, Year 1621 A.A (Anno Aeternus)

"Ow! Fuck!" Gerard howled in pain as his wife Winifred dabbed at his fresh cuts with a wet towel.

"Hold still, darling, if you haven't got in that fight, I wouldn't have to be doing this right now!" Winifred said as she continued dabbing at the wound. "I care about you too much, Gee."

"I know, I know, Winny, but now everyone's going to know I'm hiding here with you because of my brother." Gerard leaned his head back against the rickety wooden rocking chair, a heavy sigh escaping his lips.

Winifred simply stayed silent. A few minutes later, Winifred said "All done."

"Finally," Gerard sighed out of relief. "...You know I love you, Winny."

"I love you too, Gee," Winifred said softly, with a smile on her lips. "Now, you should go to bed, I'll bandage your wounds until then."

"Goodnight, then," Gerard said as he trailed up the stairs to their shared bedroom, each step creaking under his foot. If only he learned enough carpentry to build he and his Winny a better enough house than this one in the middle of some woodland.

Winifred looked up at Gerard as he shut the door to their bedroom behind him, how could she have gotten a man as handsome and as loving as him? She shook her head as she washed their remaining bed linens, the lavender scent perfuming the room as she did so, she went outside to hang them on their clothing line as she held an oil lamps.

"Well, hello there..."

"Gerard, I told you that you should get some-" Winifred's words stopped once she saw the very man that Gerard feared - his brother Benedict.

"Oh, I'm not Gerard. But I came for him, because a little birdie told me that he's after me to stop me, isn't that right?" Benedict said threateningly, tapping something long and sharp and dripping against his leg, out of sight where Winifred couldn't see.

"I'm not telling you where he is. Leave us alone." Winifred said, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice.

But Benedict just smirked, "You think I'm going to be scared of some tiny whore like you? You can have a go at me, but just know it'll end with both you and your husband's throats slit. Now tell me. Where. The fuck. Is. He?"

"Leave us alone." Winifred repeated.

"Okay, don't say I didn't warn you." Benedict said cockily as he brought out the thing tapping against his leg earlier, it was a sword, covered in blood.

Winifred was trembling in fear at this point, she didn't want to be murdered despite her sadistic nature. "Okay, fine, he's in the house. Just please, don't do anything to him."

"I can't promise you that, princess," Benedict said with a Cheshire grin as he put the sword back in it's sheath.

"No, you are not going to hurt him." Winifred said with a determination that surprised even herself. If her husband was going to die, she would rather die with him.

Benedict brought the sword back out, his grin faltering into anger, "Stay back, you bitch. I just want to talk with him." he growled.

Winifred did stay back, but with wariness in her eyes.

Benedict slid into the front door with an easiness that belied his hulking frame, and he called out, "Gerard... come out, come out, wherever you are..." he said menacingly low. He tapped his bloody sword against the wooden floor, staining the floor with the blood of the person he killed just earlier - he and Gerard's sister Zephoria.

"Gerard!" Benedict called out, louder this time.

Then, Benedict was knocked to the ground with something heavy hitting his head, his eyes open immediately to see Gerard standing over him, with broken chair pieces scattered around. "Stay down!" Gerard barked as he put his foot on Benedict's back, the heel of his boot digging into Benedict's spine, enough to make him whimper in pain.

"Jesus, Gerard! I just wanted to talk!" Benedict managed to groan out.

"Yeah, you wanted to 'talk' just so you can try to kill me!" Gerard yelled back as he dug his heel further into Benedict's back, which made his breath hitch in pain.

"No! I don't want to kill you!" the lie sounded unbelievable even to Benedict's ears.

"Fine, you can talk to me while you stay here. On the ground." Gerard surrendered with his foot still on Benedict's back, pressing a little less hard now.

"I killed our sister, Zephoria."

Those five words made Gerard's heart drop. He knew he didn't care much for Zephoria growing up, but she was still his sister. He and Benedict's sister to be exact. Then rage, white and hot, burned in Gerard's mind, how could he do this? To his own sister?

"You fucker!" Gerard screamed as he punched Benedict several times, each blow hitting almost perfectly despite his inability to fight good, then he felt his hands punching wood, he opened his eyes to see Benedict gone. Gerard knows he shouldn't be surprised, but he still was every-time he got his hands on Benedict. Now, he was left to wallow in the grief of losing Zephoria.

"PTOOOEY!"

Spitting out leaves, he scrabbled out of the thick foliage, vines clinging to his shirt like the grasping hands of a Castillian whorehouse. The trees and ferns were so close together, it was almost like swimming, and once he finally stumbled out into cultivated land he felt he had broken the surface and he could finally breathe again. Once he found his feet, and blinked from the sudden light of the overbearing sun, weighing on him almost more than his regret. He shielded his eyes with a hand and squinted, looking down the kilometer slope to see the sprawling den of thieves and killers he'd been searching for.

"Oi, what ye doin' on mah land?" A voice inquired, a bit nettled by the sound of it. Neil turned to his left, and saw a plump, sweating man wearing a wide brimmed hat looking at him, a farming tool Neil didn't quite recognize in his hands. Glancing back to the slope, it wasn't grass that separated him from Free Sail, it was a small field of tall sugar cane. Neil pursed his lips, looked back at the jungle, and then shrugged.

"Oh, I'm a part of the captain's council, just asked to check the place out." He said, beginning to move on. "Yep, still looks like a bunch of palm trees to this one."

"Hey! Where are yo-"

"No need to be a church bell, I'm fuckin' off!" Neil called back, stepping down into the field and disappearing into the sugar cane before the farmer could even think about pursuit. The young buccaneer was healthy and light on his feet, and could sneak like a ship rat. He made good time through the field, glad to know he was just a short jaunt to the city. Soon he could no longer hear the cries of the farmer, and though he occasionally heard the rustling of farmhands, he saw no one else until he stepped out from the produce and hopped the short fence separating the small plantation with the edge of the greater city.

Bloody storm had hit him hard. He'd jump ship from the Infiltrator just days ago on a lesser islet, procuring a longboat for himself just a days row from the greater island. Was his luck a squall ripped through. He didn't think he would make it for a coin toss there, but he managed to beach his boat on a spit of land, which with luck, happened to be the ass end of the island. The whole day he had been cutting and ducking his way through trees and snakes and spiders the size of a man's face.

The affable, dark haired rogue found the trade road by Calico Tower, a lightly manned sentinel that kept an eye on the back end of the city in case of a more daring play by the old world powers, or at least that was the idea. In practice, it was there to curb any thieves or drunkards from trying to finagle or threaten any land-bound merchants and farmers just trying to make a living and transporting their produce. The shadow of the tower felt nice, but the shantytown was like the spray of the sea. Guttural laughing and raucous talk filled his ears, children ran across in front of him with all the urgency of royal ships in pursuit, and shifty eyed vagabonds watched from the shadows of their makeshift homes of driftwood, seeing who might be a fine target this day. Neil liked the shanties as much as the next sailor, the goods were cheap and people asked even less questions than other pirates, but he had business in the inner city.

He passed through Drake's Gate, a northern roadway that had no gate despite the name. A rusted brass statue of Grand Admiral Drake stood with his legendary pipe, watching every passerby with a twinkle of mischief in his dead eyes. They said the pipe could call forth the sailors of the long dead, but Neil was keen on staying with the living for the foreseeable future, mind.

The City of Free Sail was a welcome sight. The buildings were functional and well made, but they didn't get all haughty with it. Stout stone, local timber, gaudy colors, whatever memorabilia could be collected were used half the time. Tenships Tannery was close by, sticking near the fresher water further inland, situated near a number of houses and apartments besides Crimson Keep, a small fortified manor bought by Les Fréres de Fer. Neil even spied a few of the kittens smoking outside the Tobacco House, the plumes in their hats loud and clear to the eye. A shoddy carriage rolled by as less well-to-do locals and sailors went about their business, calling for one another in desperation or anger. Neil turned right, and headed to the eastern side of the city, knowing he could reach the south quicker this way.

He turned down black street, where most of the eastern dives were located. The smell of alcohol and a stray dog with a slab of meat announced Mort's Distillery, men cavorting and drinking their due under the shade of the arches as women served them and bounced on their legs, giggling. The best liquor in the seas, Herri had called it. Neil spotted a few Freebooter lads and waved, laughing when they recognized him and threw lewd gestures his way as a manner of comraderie. Neil gave back worse than he got, which caused more laughter and smiles all around. They waved him to join, but he shook his head.

"Herri?" He called to them over the din.

"Ho?" A few asked, but the closest pointed west. Neil understood and waved his thanks. Speaking of lewd, across and a short walk down the street was Black Street Palace. If the perfume didn't give it away, the heavily rouged women hanging from the third story windows with their pale tits shining like beacons in the bright sun were hard to miss. A few blew kisses his way, or so it seemed, but the crowds were like the torrent of a river, and Neil wasn't interested. He had business, he kept telling himself. At the street corner, under the vast statue of a stolen Vallé D'Or lion reared up and roaring, a snake oil salesman was being accosted by three grim men of the black fleet. Neil gritted his teeth and wished him well, but turned left and away, passing Rowers & Son's and the less popular Gorman's Brewery, where the Black Fleet and a few tougher mercenaries had made their haunt.

Passed Free Sail Firearms and Andor's Arms, where Neil had gotten his backsword's new hilt, he slipped out of the way of a carriage with Captain Morgan's sigil, and stepped into the Ivory Inn. Immediately he heard curses as a man in the midst of a large game threw his cards down, angered at ill fortune or cheating. Multiple groups of men from different crews ate their fill and gossiped, a few of the older sea dogs had gathered a crowd, sharing stories of serpents and sea witches. Neil passed them all and headed to the back. It was time to meet Herri and get what was coming to him.

"Hey sailor, can I get you anything?" A flirtatious barmaid asked, giving an inviting smile.

"Unless you got a duke's daughter or a crew of killers under that bodice, I doubt it." He said, walking passed without so much as a look.

“As though we were smugglers not poor honest men!” 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.

.

"A woman of means needs a duelist... certainly Theus would demand I put the needs of others before my own..." Piero's sly smile betrayed his real motives as he spun on his heels and re-entered the crowd. He knew, given his limited standing and pittiable assets, that a strong connection would serve him best in the long run.

So, he was off to DiVacce manor... just as soon as he freshened up his appearance.

“Mi scusi, Signora,” said a large craggy-faced man in a servant's attire, his voice like a bag of gravel, “Sta arriving un ospite.”

“Grazie, Lucco. Portamelo e lo valuterò.”

“Sì, signora.”

DiVacce Manor sat atop a wide, round-topped hill roughly a quarter-mile south of the main town of Free Sail, far enough away to keep the rabble from wandering onto the premises without ample warning, but still within the protection of the old Castillian star-fort that watched over Pact Harbor. Like many of the permanent buildings in the town, the Manor was Castillian in style, formerly the villa of one of the town's officials before its occupiers abandoned their claim to the island and its inhabitants. It was two stories and asymmetrical, with its windows and doors forming narrow arches, red roof shingles that contrasted sharply against the painstakingly maintained whitewash of the walls, a wraparound balcony on the second floor, and a round three-story tower that made up the house's front-right corner.

While the house itself was Castillian in architecture, the garden surrounding it was unmistakably Medician in design and sensibility. A mixture of vibrant flowers, exotic trees, marble statues of heroic men and beautiful women, babbling fountains and shimmering pools, all meticulously arranged in geometric patterns that aligned at perfect angles with the house, it was barely a modest lawn compared to the sprawling landscapes of the Old Country, but nonetheless an expression of the Medician belief that order arises from chaos.

Indeed, the intricate and maze-like nature of a Medician noble's garden was often compared to a spider's web...with all of the connotations associated with it.

Sitting in her garden, thoughtfully reading from a tiny black leather-bound book and only occasionally looking up to make corrections for the gardeners as they worked, was a delicate-looking young woman with fair skin and dark hair tied back in a tight braid adorned with violet ribbons. Despite the heat of the midday, she wore a high-collared black dress with violet trim, the only sign of discomfort from wearing such dark clothing in the hot climate being a small fan with which she occasionally took a break from reading to cool herself.

All around the garden and the house, a veritable swarm of servants busied themselves. Gardeners tended the flowers and hedges with large gleaming shears. Roofers carefully walked along the manor house's upper levels, replacing worn or damaged shingles. A pair of masons carefully re-worked one of the stone sculptures, working with hammers, chisels, and mortar. A young man with ropes and climbing gear scuttled on the outer walls of the house to clean the windows. A pair of young girls played on the grass with a set of shining lawn darts. An elderly man carefully laid out the pieces of an ornate tea set on a small table in the garden.

As the craggy-faced servant led the newcomer into the garden, he spoke in heavily-accented Albian, the island's common tongue. “...must speak only when spoken to. Unless Signora DiVacce instructs you otherwise, you are to refer to her only as ‘Signora.’ You are not to stand unless she is standing, nor sit unless she is sitting. You will not-”

“Va bene, Lucco,” the young woman said, “I am not interested in hiring this man for his etiquette.”

The servant bowed and stepped away. The woman in black then approached the stranger and gave a formal curtsy.

“Buongiorno, Signor Ladrocelli,” she greeted him, catching the guest off-guard by mentioning him by name before he introduced himself. “I am Donna Eladora DiVacce. Forgive my forwardness, but I would like to get directly to the business at hand.”

She gestured at the lush garden, the stately manor house, and the busy servants tending to their work.

“There are three people here with weapons,” she explained, “and you now have thirty seconds to find them all before one of them tries to kill me.”

Herri Smallthumbs gave a smile with his too-wide mouth, a number of his teeth replaced with silver and ivory. Neil had once heard him say if someone ever lent him a gold tooth he would make them a captain of their own galleon. Neil would have done it, but Herri had rejected 8 gold tooths, insisting they wouldn't fit. He was well known, but not well liked. Only Neil and a handful of others who had no qualms dealing with someone who stank like dead fish and acted worse could stand him. Neil actually liked the scraggly old sea dog.

"So you survived that job on Castell Fiore. I was hoping to see you again." Herri said in a way one couldn't help but question the validity of. He was good at that. "How was it?"

"Lot of fire, lot of shot, more swords than you'd expect.." Neil shrugged. "About as dangerous as that night at the summer solstice. You remember the one, when we-"

Herri grinned. "Yeah, and then the mule when he-"

"And the prince drank with-"

"the blind orphan, right!" Herri cackled with laughter. Neil laughed with him. Truth be told, Neil remember the night only vaguely, but the flippant memories were wilder than anything he could realistically make up. But he knew Herri had been there, and when Neil dragged him out from under the roof of the ruined tavern, they had been comrades ever since. Neil had only just started his life of crime off solid ground, and Herri had lost one friend too many.

After their jovial mood died down, Herri took a sip of his brandy, and gave a satisfied sigh. He then dropped his smile, and leaned forward. "You wanted a score, right?"

"I'm not in it for the food."

Herri produced a piece of parchment, and handed it to Neil like it held the location of Barnabus Isaac's treasure. Neil took it and raised an eyebrow, opening it up speculatively.

ADVENTUROUS SOULS WANTED: To accompany an expedition into Aeternian Empire ruins on the Azul Islands. Handsome rewards and historical credit to those who assist in this bold enterprise. Contact Sir Edmund Lawrence at the Golden Cove Hotel for more information.

"I heard you can make incredible gold on such a venture. Might want to check it out. They should still be here another day or two, then the contract is gone like piss in the ocean."

"Do you know how long the voyage is? Daily pay? Working conditions?"

Herri Smallthumbs gave a faux 'whatever' look. "Sure, I can play with your ass too if you want."

"Is that how you got the nickname?"

"Get outta here!"

City of Free Sail
Shepherd's Island
New World Colonies, Antillean Archipelago
Late Spring, Year 1621 A.A. (Anno Aeternus)



Sofia closed the business ledger she had been reviewing. She kept a close watch over her businesses and managers. Now that she had caught up on what had to be taken care of she could indulge herself. She was itching to return to the sea. Sofia had been born into wealth and privilege. The only child of a minor noble that had married into more wealth. She had lived a life of ease and comfort until her life seemed to come to a cruel and brutal stop. Rarely did a day go by that she didn’t wake from nightmares of flame and smoke. The images of her dead and terrified children’s faces haunted her. The ghost and memories of her beloved husband were felt wherever she looked even though she had to rebuild their home. The anger and desire for revenge burned deep within her and consumed her thoughts. The practicalities of everyday life were most insistent though. Her stomach rumbled as she had forgotten to eat again.

Sofia sighed as she stood and stretched. She was about to go to the kitchen when her butler, Kingsley Chapman knocked once and then opened the door to her office.

Kingsley: “Pardon the interruption madam but there is a Monsieur Leblanc here to see you. He presented a letter of introduction from the president of the Exchange.” Kingsley handed over the letter in question. “I put him in the sitting room. What would you like me to tell him?”

Sofia resisted the urge to roll her eyes and sigh again. She had no idea who Monsieur Leblanc was but she suspected why he was here. She had been inundated with men offering their business expertise or to court her. Sofia was no fool and knew they just wanted access to her assets and money. They all sought to “help her in her time of need”. She read over the letter and examined the wax seal. The letter appeared to be genuine. Mr. Leblanc had taken a route for an introduction that she could not politely refuse. She nodded to Kingsley before deciding what to tell him.

Sofia: “That will do Kingsley. I will see what he wants and send him on his way.”

Sofia left her office with Kingsley leading the way. She was perfectly capable of navigating her own home but Kingsley was a stickler for formalities. He was kind hearted and loyal. His formality often helped her keep others at bay. She hid a smile as Kingsley opened the doors into the sitting room with a flourish and stepped to one side and bowed as he announced her to her guest. Kingsley’s formal tones tried to impress the importance of his employer on her visitor. Sofia couldn’t have cared less. But Kingsley’s ways always amused her.

Kingsley: “Dona Sofia Ines de Moreda y Cartagena.”

A handsome gentleman close to her age rose to his feet to greet her. He was dressed in rich red and gold toned damask. He smiled at Sofia and gave her a courtly bow as he bowed with his large foppish hat in a grand gesture. Sofia hid her instant dislike of the foppish fellow. He was wearing the latest fashion and had an excellent tailor. However she could tell his suit had been tailored to enhance his weak and thin frame. His suit jacket had been padded along the shoulders to give the appearance of a stronger fitter man. His mustache was oiled and waxed into a curvy shape that looked like it wouldn’t budge in Noah’s flood. His eyes were cold and calculating even as his expression appeared warm and inviting. His smile sent a shiver down her spine. He came towards her looking to close the distance between them. Sofia stiffened even as Kingsley stepped between them.

Kingsley's voice was stiff and strong with displeasure: “You will retain a proper distance Monsieur or you will be escorted from the premises.”

Leblanc: “Non. How silly of me. I was just so surprised by Dona De Moreda’s beauty. I have heard of the lady surely but rumors rarely prove to be true. Pardon my slip.” He gave another stately bow in apology.

Sofia’s eyes narrowed as she watched the man. “Please state your business Monsieur Leblanc.”

Leblanc: “Of course. Pardon my rudeness. My name is Monsieur Michael Leblanc and I represent Leblanc family business interests here in the Antillean. I represent the local family branch of Leblanc Shipping. Perhaps you have heard of us?”

The man raised an eyebrow in the query. When she didn’t reply he continued.

Leblanc: “Non? How unusual. We are one of the largest shipping companies based in Vallé D'Or. Our clients are the wealthiest and most powerful in the region. They demand discretion and a quick turn around. We understand that your husband is dead and you are running his business interests now. We would like to take that burden off your hands. We would like to buy your husband’s company and ships.”

His tone implied that she should be grateful that they were willing to do her this favor. He reached into an inner coat pocket and pulled out a heavy sealed packet that bore some Vallé D'Or noble house seal. He handed it to Kingsley.

Leblanc: “The details of our offer are included in the packet of information. I will be in Free Sail for a month. I am staying at the Golden Cove Hotel. I can be reached there. I look forward to hearing from you after having reviewed our very generous offer. Would Mademoiselle be interested in having dinner with me?”

Sofia frowned and barely contained the sigh and scowl that she wanted to use. She inclined her head regally in his general direction. She managed to keep her tone civil but it was cold.

Sofia: "Monsieur Leblanc, You should know that I am not looking to sell my late husband’s company at this time. I have plans indefinitely. You will not be hearing from me. Now please leave my estate. Don’t come back.” She gave him a polite smile and waved towards the door to indicate he should leave.

Leblanc looked perplexed and stunned at her answer. Anger threaded through his voice and hatred filled his eyes as he regarded Sofia. He gave her another beseeching smile and look as his tone seemed to be conciliatory.

Leblanc: “Madam, you have not even read the offer yet. I was assured by the Exchange President that you would be interested in my offer. I am sure you must be lonely now that your husband and children are dead. Tis not seemly that a woman of your station lower herself to run a business. You should rewed and live such matters to your husband.”

Sofia’s eyes spat fire and her anger would no longer be contained. “The President of the Exchange, while an important figure in the area, has no power over my choices. My business does very well. I have no need or desire to sell my late husband’s company. How dare you imply that you know what I need or feel. Get out of my home. Don’t come back.”

Leblanc looked angry and took a step towards her threateningly.

Kingsley once more stepped between them. His tone was firm. “Monsieur Leblanc, you have outstayed your welcome. Madam has asked you to leave.” Kingsley took a threatening step towards the man.

Leblanc scowled and stormed off in a twirl of rich damask cloth. His heeled shoes made tapping noises on the tile as he left. The man was carrying on in his native tongue as he left. He was openly angry now.

Kingsley followed the man to ensure he left the property. He climbed into his waiting carriage still ranting in his native tongue.

---

It was some time later before she managed to slip away unnoticed. She was dressed in dark clothes, pants, leather boots, and had her mask pulled over her face. The light cloak had a deep hood that threw her face into shadows. Her sword and dagger hung from her hip, swallowed by the folds of cloth. The cloak billowed in the soft breeze from shore as she made her way to the tavern she had bought, the Scallywags Den. It was staffed by people completely loyal to her. When she began looking for who had killed her family, she ran into others who needed help along the way. She had rescued some from slavery and worse. Others, she simply offered them a job with decent wages. In a place like Free Sails, the opportunities favored the wealthy or able bodied. Those without resources or able bodied lived hard lives, eking out a living however they could. She paid them well to keep their ears open. Her best informant was an old one eyed sailor with a peg leg named Salty Pete. He was old and had a stooped back. He couldn’t work on sailing ships anymore. He had been tossed aside as worthless and was forced to beg in the streets. He had been sick and dying when she had come across him lying in a gutter near Scallywags. She nursed him back to health and offered him a job. He continued to beg in the streets and nurse a tankard of ale at Scallywags. He put his ears to work for her. She made sure he had a safe place to sleep and at least one meal a day. He stayed at Scallywags and helped provide security to Maggie.

The tavern was run by Maggie MacDugan. She had rescued Maggie’s daughter from slavers. Maggie had sworn herself to Maria Rose, La Conquistadora. None of them knew her real identity as Dona Sofia Ines de Moreda. None of them had seen her face. Maggie ran Scallywags for her. Maggie collected the rumors and whispers that came through the doors of the tavern. She passed her information they learned as sailors came in to drink.

The Scallywags Den had a reputation for good food and drink, a game of chance, and the occasional bar brawl. It was cleaner than you would expect for a dockside bar. The furniture was sturdy and held up well to the occasional brawl. They often attracted a musician passing through which would provide entertainment to the masses. There was always a game of cards or dice to be found inside its walls. The barmaids were nice to look at but you didn’t touch without permission. Maggie didn’t let it get too out of hand. The patrons helped with security as they appreciated the low prices, excellent rum, and Maggie’s excellent cooking. There were always a few of her crew around to help Maggie if she needed a little muscle. The tavern gave her a way to pay for information and collect whispers in the dark. The Scallywags Den paid for information if the tip was good and the street urchins and people who lived in the shanties knew that. So did the sailors who patronized the tavern. Maggie was known to offer up a pint of ale and a meal for a good rumor or two.

Sofia slipped down the alleyway behind the tavern. She was pleased to note that while the alleyway smelled of refuse and rotting fish it was empty. She slipped quickly through the back door of the tavern using her key. She stepped into the main floor of the tavern noting that business was steady. She hung back in the shadows of the alcove to the stairs until she caught Maggie’s eye and then quietly went up the stairs towards Maggie’s office and slipped inside. She took a seat in her office and tapped her hand impatiently on the arm of the chair.

Maggie slipped inside but a few minutes later. Her brogue accent snapped with amusement and irritation. “Good evening Maria. I see you are as patient as always.”

Sofia gave a wry smile because she knew Maggie was right. “I don’t have time for patience. Spread the word to the crew. I would like to sail with the tide on the morrow. Any news for me?”

Maggie chuckled and nodded. “I heard that another ship came into port from the east. A merchant who was attacked and had their cargo taken at sea by pirates. Several of the crew came in to drown their woes in an ale. They claimed the pirates that attacked them took their ledgers, cargo, and freed some indentured servants but let them go with enough food and water to make it back to shore. They didn’t give the name of the pirate ship or crew though. It was a bit unusual so I thought ye would be interested m’lady.”

Sofia’s interest was piqued and she nodded. “That is a new one. I had not heard of a pirate taking the ship’s log and business ledgers. Keep your ears open if anyone can name the ship or pirate crew responsible. I would like to talk to them. Maybe they would have information on the Crimson Demon crew.”

Maggie nodded. “Of course. I will get word to the crew that you want to sail with the eventide on the morrow.”

Sofia nodded and tilted her head to the side. She didn’t want to give too much away but she had a suspicion there was more to Leblanc than what he had shown her. She had reviewed their offer after he left. Their offer would have been snapped up by most widows who didn’t understand business. On the surface it looked like a great offer but the devil was in the details. They wanted business contacts, they would own not only the name but all the assets that came with the business including all the ships. Their offer was a joke when one considered the cost of a ship. Their offer was laughable. She would have to give up all rights to the name and all property that belonged to the business. Their contract stipulated all assets would have to be handed over. Most didn’t realize that included the money that kept the business solvent. They wanted to try and claim all her monetary assets by claiming them as business assets.

Sofia: “I want more information about the President of the Exchange and a businessman staying at the Golden Cove Hotel, Monsieur Micheal Leblanc. Ask Gabriella to approach Mr. Leblanc to learn more about him and why he is here. I believe that she is the best choice for this.”

Maggie nodded. “I will let her know that you will be paying for the information.”

Sofia smiled and nodded. “Thank you Mags.”

Sofia rose to her feet and slipped back out into the night.

“As though we were smugglers not poor honest men!” 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.

The pudgy man's eyebrows raised at the glint of silver as Camilla rolled it across her knuckles, but beyond that, he betrayed no emotion.

"I may have heard such a name," he responded, his Castillian slow but clear and deliberate, implying he was not a native speaker but taken great pains to learn. "Though I have the hardest time putting names to faces. I can't quite say I recall just where I hear the name....perhaps you can help spark my memory?"

"Hastings!" a deep Albian voice boomed from a far table. "Don't be crass-- this young lass is the first to inquire for us, and I'd like a proper introduction."

Rising from the far table and walking towards Camilla was a stout, barrel-chested man just shy of six feet, only just on the far side of fifty. He had sandy yellowing hair and beard that was once red, leathery skin tanned to a light brown, a smile as broad as his shoulders, and wrinkles on his eyes and cheeks that suggested his smile was a near constant. He wore a coat that was clearly of fine make, but had grown a bit worn and shabby over time. And while he had a paunch of a stomach and his jawline was soft and somewhat jowly, his build suggested that he had spent many years as a man of action....a time which was cut short prematurely, evidenced by the fact that his right arm ended at the elbow, and his stride suggested his left leg was false.

"Do excuse my dear Mister Hastings," the man said, giving Camilla a slight bow. "He tends to play his proverbial cards close to the chest, as it were. A fine habit in a first mate, and a mentality that has saved my bacon on more than one occasion, but it does tend to make something of a brusque first impression."

With a blink the only lapse in his composure, he realized he had been prattling on in Albian, and without missing a beat, switched to speaking in the same slow-but-flawless learned Castillian as Mister Hastings. "Sir Edmund Lawrence, Lord of the South Quay of Kernow, at your service."

Sir Edmund offered his left hand for a hearty handshake, then gestured to the barkeep. "Three pints of bitter, if you please!"

Turning apologetically to Camilla, he felt compelled to explain. "My apologies for ordering a beverage without inquiring on your particular tastes, but sailors' tradition and good common sense does dictate that one should never discuss a new business venture while entirely sober."

As the bartender filled three relatively-clean pewter mugs with foamy brown beer, Sir Edmund's eyes twinkled.

"I'm quite fond of traditions," he said. "They make one feel as though they are part of something grander than oneself. The people may change, the times may change, and the reasons for them may be lost, but the traditions remain the same. Like the clinking of drinks together in good company and trust...and how that came from the need to mix each person's drink together, to ensure none of the drinks were poisoned."

As the bartended handed Sir Edmund and Mister Hastings the pints, the barrel-chested older man raised his mug in a toast.

"To old stones and new opportunities," he offered as a toast. "Now, to business. I have a proposition that may lead to us all getting killed, or perhaps lead to us all looking very silly....or perhaps still, lead to us all uncovering lost knowledge that will change the balance of power in the New World, and make us all quite influential in the process. Does that spark your interest, Miss....?"

“Camilla Sforza,” Camilla replied, tipping her own drink back and draining it. Ale was not her drink nor, she suspected, would this ale have been a sterling example of its breed, but it was wet and far better than the sour greenish beer and harsh rum that had passed as drink aboard the Espri’d’mar. It wasn’t much of an alias, her mother had been a Sforza before marrying but it was unlikely that any alias would survive more than a few hours once Domenguez got ashore and rounded up a few bully boys.

“It does spark my interest,” she confessed, “I came to the New World searching for something, and I think this might be just the place to start.”

“And what skills will you be bringing to the enterprise,” Hasting asked with disarming neutrality. Camilla made an expressive Medici shrug, as though the question was of little import. Hastings was not one to let go once his teeth sunk into a bone.

“Can you sail?” Camilla shook her head.

“Can you navigate a ship in storm, or guide a ship of a lee shore?” he pressed. Camilla shook her head.

“Are you a purser? A cooper? A surgeon's mate?” Camilla shook her head again, though in truth she was probably better educated than any purser or surgeons mate in Free Sail

“A gunner, a topman, a crackerhash?” Camilla shook her head in blanket denial. Hastings leaned forward on clenched fists, his eyes flicking to his Captain who had yet to intervene.

“Then what, pray tell, can you add to our task?” he asked with heavy irony. Camilla smiled at him, exposing her neat white teeth.

“Why master Hastings, I can play the fiddle, I can dance a reel, and I can fight,” she replied putting an emphasis on the last word. Hasting snorted audible.

“You are very pretty I grant you but fight…” he drew his cutlass as if to underscore his point. Camilla whipped her pistol from her sash and fired in a single fluid motion. There was a metallic clang and Hasting’s sword flew free of his hand. The sword landed point first in the wooden flooring, quivering like a struck bell. Hastings cursed and shook his jarred hand. Camilla blew the powder smoke away as though dispelling pipe smoke in a drawing room. She lowered the pistol and set it on the table, cocking an eyebrow at Sir Edmund who was softly chuckling.

“Well, it always helps to have someone on hand who can dance a reel,” he admitted, his twinkling eyes laughing in delight.

Somewhere at Sea
Antillean Archipelago
Late Spring, Year 1621 A.A. (Anno Aeternus)

Sofia held her looking glass to her eye. The ship had been following them playing peek a boo on the horizon trying to stay out of sight. She smiled as they were moving steadily closer. The ship had no flags showing their allegiance. Sofia could feel it in her gut like a burning acid, it was a pirate ship. Sofia called out to her crew. “Looks like we have a fish on the hook. You know what to do!”

Sofia grinned as her crew went through the steps of appearing to be a merchant crew. They were all wearing matching uniforms of dark blue cotton pants with a long white shirt with a blue yoke around the collar. There was a wide belt of black leather that cinched and held everything in place. Black boots finished the look but many of the men didn’t bother with the boots while working on the boat.

Sofia had taken one of her husband’s fast sloops and retrofitted it. She had the work done secretly for her in one of the many small uninhabited islands of the archipelago. The old Castillian ship builder was the one who had built the galleon that had been a wedding gift to her husband. The Santa Dolorosa had been transformed to look like an easy mark to lure in those who would prey on merchants. The ship was full of surprises with hidden gunports, secret compartments, and reinforced hull plating beneath the waterline, it was a merchant ship by appearance… but a hunter by design. By day, the ship was a serene merchant, offering fine silks, rare spices, and exotic goods at sea. She appeared to be alone, a laden merchant ship riding low in the water with a full cargo, a tempting prize for greedy eyes. By night, her crew was a group of loyal misfits, escaped slaves, and shipwrecked soldiers who owed her their lives. The crew sharpened their blades and rehearsed the trap. Each man and woman aboard knew their role when the false sail appeared on the horizon.

Sofia watched her crew move around like a well oiled machine. Her crew mimicked panic and fumbling and fouling the lines. The suddenly foiled sail caused the ship to slow and start to flounder as it sailed off course towards the pirates hidden on the horizon. The crew rushed about as if incompetent at their job, appearing to struggle to put the sails to rights. Observers would miss it if they were not paying close attention to details, they would miss the crew slowly and quietly arming themselves one by one, swords appeared on those leather belts hanging in their sheaths. The ship sails appeared to be disentangled now but were hanging limp having lost the wind. The ship’s movement stalled as the crisis appeared to have been averted and the crew took a breath before setting the ship back on course. The perfect moment for a pirate to strike if they were going too. Sofia had padded the trap expertly, having done it time and again.

Sofia gave a smug grin as she heard the lookout call, “Sails off the starboard bow!” She was not surprised to see that same ship now bearing towards them with as much speed as they could get from the wind. The unknown ship now flying the Jolly Roger. Her lookout called down to her “It’s the Black Dog!” The Black Dog was a pirate ship that prided themselves on plundering other ships and sinking them at sea. The Black Dog was an old converted freighter. They had plenty guns but the Delarosa had them beat for speed. Sofia smiled as she began to call real orders to her crew. “Full sail, come about! Make haste! We need to be sailing into the wind before they can catch us.”

The crew snapped to at her orders. As the pirate ship drew closer, the Delorosa leapt to life in response. The ship quickly heeling about and now running to face the pirate ship. Sofia and the crew leaned with the ship and kept their feet as the wind and sail exerted force on the ship tilting it to the side. The Delarosa was faster than the Black Dog which was a slower boat with a heavy draw. The Black Dog was a sea slug compared to the sleek and fast Delarosa. The Black Dog had been designed with carrying weight in mind. Two rows of cannons stuck out the ship’s sides. Sofia grinned as the hidden gunports on her ship snapped open. The large one on the deck at the prow of the ship popped open. Sofia yelled out across the deck “Take out the mast!”

The big cannon on the front of the ship fired the roar and power of the cannon causing the deck to tremble under her feet. Two heavy cannon balls fired towards the other ship connected by heavy linked chains. The weight and force of the cannon balls would pull the chains shredding wood and sail in its path. Sofia smiled as her gunner’s aim proved true as she saw one of the masts on the Black Dog topple to the side crushing part of the deck railing. As the sloop went past the heavy freighter turned pirate ship they exchanged cannon fire. Sofia’s crew expertly grappling the other ship and pulling the two ships together. Now crews were using ropes hung from the sail rigging to swing across to the other ship or jumping across. The battle was on.

The sounds of steel clashing mixed with the screams of the dying and battle cries. The sound of an occasional flintlock could be heard but the bedlam centered around the clash of steel as the two crews met. Sofia was wearing her gold mask, blue breeches, a cream colored shirt, and a blue coat. She fought her way to the captain of the Black Dog. She parried his thrust and was soon engaged in a steel tit-for-tat fight. She finally managed to snare the hilt of his sword with her blade and flung it out of his hand. She pressed her advantage, holding her sword at his throat with a snarl. “Yield!” The crew of the Black Dog yielded. Sofia had her crew rig their ship for towing after putting the crew in the brig. The ship and crew were handed off to the city magistrate at Free Sail. Sofia paid her crew and they left to celebrate at the Scallywags Den.

---

City of Free Sail
The Scallywags Den



The tavern’s lanterns provide dim lighting as the air is heavy with salt from the sea and smoke from the fireplaces and lanterns. It smells of rum, unwashed bodies, and secrets. Lanterns flicker behind stained glass made from shattered bottles. Shanties hum low beneath the chatter of cutthroats, smugglers, and mercenaries. The bartender Maggie serves ale from a barrel and rum from dark bottles.

Sofia smiled as she sat at a table in the corner of Scallywags. Her crew was happy and joyful with mugs of ale and good food in their belly. They were merry as they played games of chance with cards and dice. Sofia relaxed in the company of her crew. Her gold mask glinted and caught the light. Anyone who saw the telltale mask knew her name, La Conquistadora. The word had already gone out across the shanties that La Conquistadora was holding court at her usual table at the Scallywags Den. Now it was just a matter of time as the typical informants brought her the rumors and whispers they had overheard. Sofia sipped at her wine that Maggie kept on hand for her as she watched the revelry around her waiting.

“No one has ever properly surveyed the Aeternian ruins,” Sir Edmund said, his voice sliding smoothly between them like silk, though his words were sharp, edged with the kind of intensity that made the tavern feel chill despite the tropical heat.. He gestured vaguely to the room as if the very walls themselves might be complicit in his tale.

“Not truly. The Castillians have ransacked a few, superstitious twits, the Dons. They have no real understanding of what they’re dealing with. It’s all smoke and mirrors to them.”

Camilla’s gaze flickered to the fire, where shadows seemed to creep up the stones like forgotten memories. The warmth of the day seemed to retreat as Edmund’s words sank in, seeping into the room, thickening the air. She took a slow sip of her own wine, letting the rough burn settle in her throat.

“What wonders might be uncovered,” Sir Edmund continued, leaning forward, his eyes wide and fevered. “If we could only pierce their mysteries…” His voice trailed off, and for a moment, Camilla could almost see the images of strange, forgotten cities flickering in his mind.

“The common folk speak of it as though the Aeternians were gods themselves capable of miracles that would make even the Vaticine priests tremble. Strange stories, yes, but we both know the truth behind them. The King of Castile’s brazen head, which speaks portents of the future so dire they drove poor Queen Johanna mad. The Duc de Belchite’s cup, which never empties no matter how much you drink from it.” Edmund’s voice dropped lower, as though sharing a secret too terrible for daylight. “And yet... no one truly knows where these things are. Only rumors.”

Camilla’s fingers tightened around her glass. She had heard the stories, of course. Every sailor, every drunkard, every fool in the tavern had whispered about those treasures. But there was a weight to Edmund’s word,s a darkness that made them more than idle tavern talk.

"And how did you come to know of these ruins?" Camilla asked, though the question felt almost foolish, as though she already knew the answer, and yet her curiosity would not be silenced.

Edmund smiled, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Ah. You must’ve heard of Sir Roger Popham, surely? Gunsmoke Popham, the pirate?” He leaned in closer, his voice lowering to a near whisper, as if speaking the name aloud might conjure something from the deep shadows of the room.

Camilla stiffened. Of course she had heard of him. The name was spoken in hushed tones, as though even the wind feared to carry the legend too far. A pirate, a legend, and a madman Popham had raided the Castilian colonies decades ago, bringing back treasure and stories so fantastic they had become impossible to believe. It was said that Popham had made a deal with Abbadon himself, so furious he was in battle. There were stories of him putting entire colonies to the sword, of setting captured ships afire with their crews lashed in the rigging. Despite these black rumors he had returned to Albion covered in glory, laying an empire ransom at the feet of his Queen and rumored lover.

Edmund took a long draw from his glass, letting the silence hang in the air. He stared into the fireplace, his mind clearly far away and his face troubled.

“After the flux claimed him,” Edmund continued, his voice now a rasp, “his papers were handed to my father. I spent many an hour poring over them as a boy. And there, among the dust and old ink, I found something curious. A scrap of his logbook. Torn. Nearly unreadable. But it spoke of a great hurricane…” His voice dropped low, almost reverential,as if the storm were something more akin to the biblical flood than simple weather.
“They were caught, you see. After raiding Aratheusa, a hurricane hit them, tossed their ships about like toys. Rain so hard you would drown for looking to the heavens. Mizzen and topsail yards ripped away by the winds, and six out of seven hours at the pumps to keep from founderin’. For nearly a week they fought it, until the seventh day dawned bright and calm as the pool of Cadiz. The ship was near shattered. The crew was near mad with fear and exhaustion. But when the storm cleared…” Edmund’s eyes glinted, wild now, “they found themselves surrounded by islands, the purest blue water you’ve ever seen. Three islands. He called them the Azul Islands.”
The tavern felt suddenly colder. The fire seemed dimmer, the shadows in the corners of the room stretching longer, as if something unseen was creeping just out of sight.

“They had to go ashore, you see, needed to cut a new mizzen mast and replenish the stores that had been lost overboard in the storm. Took six able hands and bosun Higgs to cut fresh timber and provision, discovered ruins of a great city. Coriablis. ” Edmund’s tone made clear he was quoting from the papers he had found.

Coriablis. The name tasted strange on Camilla’s tongue. There was no record of such a place. No map, no mention. It felt wrong, like the name had been forgotten by time itself and only now was it being forced into the light.

“What happened?” she asked, intrigued and fascinated by the odd tale.

“He doesn't say, not one more word about it appeared in any of the papers I could find, I even tried to track down surviving crew, but even the cabin boy was an old man by the time I found him, and him half mad and blind besides. The only record I could find was the muster book. It was curious. It listed Bosun Bartholemew Higgs and six able seaman as discharged dead that very day. Pophman was the only one who came back alive… the only one.
The fire crackled, the wind outside howled, and the shadows in the corners of the room seemed to pulse, as though listening.

Camilla’s pulse quickened. She could almost feel the weight of the dark sea pressing in on her, the pull of something ancient and unknowable. She swallowed, her throat dry. “And after that?”

Edmund’s smile was wide, almost mad. “After that? Well, he stumbled upon the treasure fleet at San Jose, didn’t he? Found it by pure accident, no doubt. A man with such luck, never a fellow so damned lucky in all of Albion’s history.” This part of the story she had heard. Dark his reputation might be but everyone agreed that Gunsmoke Popham never fell down a hole but it had silver in the bottom. Popham’s Luck was a well known saying on Albion to express inexplicable good fortune.

“And you have bearings for these islands?” Camilla asked, her spirit fired by this strange and mysterious story despite her best efforts.

“Aye,” Edmund said, his eyes burning with feverish certainty. “I’ve pieced it all together from Popham’s records. It won’t be easy, but we will find those islands. And when we do, we’ll uncover the treasures that have been buried there for centuries. And glory will be ours, Camilla. The glory of the ages.”

Camilla felt the weight of his words settle into the pit of her stomach. Edmund drew on his pipe, his eyes hooded as smoke trailed from his nostrils. Something about the tale certainty unsettled her, as though he had already crossed some unseen threshold.

“Just a few more souls for the crew and we will be ready to sail,” Edmund breathed.

"Interesting..." Neil murmured after he made his way downstairs, pondering the offer his old colleague had given him. There was a twinkle in his eyes, the same glint of mischief Camilla del Atranto fell in love with. "That's very interesting..."

If the ship was designed the way he said... bluff above the water and sharp below. Gives the hull a finer entry and a long run as she goes aft. Heavier, but fast despite it. Hell of a galleon, if true. Neil would have to give it a look himself. Already he was entertaining notions of a possible mutiny, though really his mind wandered often to places he would never tread. However, he did need a ship to go back to the old world and rescue Camilla. If this was as impressive as he was lead to believe, it might fit the bill. First, however, he would need the treasure of the expedition. And even before that, he needed a bloody drink.

He wasn't going to stay at the inn. Any fool knew you wouldn't make a deal and then loiter about, and so he went to the next closest tavern. Gorman's Brewery, where the Black Fleet and a few tougher mercenaries made their haunt. Despite their fearsome reputation, as long as he was there for a quick drink, nothing untoward would happen. Though given it was Neil Edwards, something untoward always happened. He crossed the busy street, a carriage swerving to miss him as he casually walked across, onlookers gasping or looking on incredulously. Neil gave a casual nod to a few on the left before stepping in.

He was met by the faint smell of alcohol and the overwhelming scent of sweat. The light was low, the sun still blinding outside. Pirates in black frock coats and men in leathers armed with long knives spoke in cordoned off tables and drank their beer, laughing and threatening one another in four different tongues. A few gave Neil a chilling look, but he merely stepped to the counter, where an old, burly seadog chewed on a piece of tobacco and curled his thick fingers around a concealed weapon behind the bar, as he likely did every time someone approached him.

"Hello, fine establishment you have here." Neil said with a posh accent, indicating the common area. He didn't yell it, but a few closer men of the Black Fleet looked at one another curiously. Neil glanced their way, but then caught a curious sight. Three tables down, he noticed a small cadre of rough looking sailors sitting with Saltpeter Hardin, the dockmaster. Neil's left eye twitched for a moment, and he dropped two doubloons, the silver clinking on the table. "Two flagons of rum, and some peanuts if you have any."

After the barman checked the authenticity of the coins with the tried and true method of biting down on a single piece, he went about his business. Soon Neil had two mugs of rum, and some peanuts in a bowl he had nestled in his left arm. After a brief hesitation, he strode over to see old Saltpeter.

"-and what if the navy gets wise to us?" A black bearded thug asked, his eyes betraying the cunning he likely never utilized unless absolutely necessary. Neil operated the same way. His personality gave people a view of stupidity while he hid his real motive.

"The navy-" Neil said to the men, placing a glass of rum down on the table in front of Saltpeter and pulling up a chair for himself. "Will be none the wiser, as they say."

Already pistols and swords were drawn, and Saltpeter looked as white as a sheet, already sweat impressively beginning to pour down his thin face. For Neil's part, he took a big swig of his rum, enjoying his fill even as the pirates demanded he explain himself. If looks could kill, he'd be dead on the spot. He placed the rum down on the table with an audible clack. "What? Pete, you didn't tell 'em? I'm his business partner!"

"No, he is not!" Saltpeter rebuked, but Neil slapped a hand on his shoulder, drawing him in a hug.

"If I'm not then how did I know you'd be here at this time, hmmm?" Truth be told, he had not known that, but it was a circumstantial bluff he could use to his advantage. He waved the men to sit, and though they hadn't fired or stabbed him, there was only a small inkling of relaxation that wasn't nearly enough to keep his head. "See, when ol' Pete here takes a bribe, I do the dirty work and make sure things run smooth as a mermaid's hide."

Neil was only half-lying. He knew how Saltpeter worked. There was never a man as corrupt as him, and he used a bunch of street urchins and low level sailors, pinned badges on them, and sent them out to lie through their teeth and compartmentalize various ships and their crews so the highest bidders could take their time in the best spots. Not only that, but Saltpeter knew where to take ships on the run from the navy, and even knew a few secret berths in times of crisis. Neil had been one of his "helpers" before, and he nearly lost his head from it. Now he found a chance to get Saltpeter back, and get paid doing it, or at least keep him from getting paid. The tavern had gone mostly quiet, the confrontation taking the brunt of everyone's attention.

"What the hell'dya not tell us about him, for?" One of the pistol wielders asked Saltpeter with a growl, shifting the barrel to point the weapon at him. The dockmaster blanched.

"Th-that's right, Neil is an acquaintance, though I didn't think he'd show up here. I promise I was not hiding anything. What would be the point? All this does is hurt the meeting!"

He was right, though what Neil was doing wasn't the worst thing to happen to the meeting. The door burting open and the port watch streaming in was far more meddlesome, and Neil took a huge swig of his rum as the Black Fleetsmen bared their teeth and brandished their weapons at the watch, who by order of their sergeant, halted and presented their muskets and swords. Neil's brows rose, and he sunk under the table slowly as something far more volatile was about to happen.

Inez Domenique de Galva hated Free Sail. She hated most of the Antillies in fairness, the choking jungle, the dilapidated buildings, the general disorder. The Castilian islands were not much better, lorded over by degenerate aristocrats and pseudo-aristocrats who couldn’t make it back in Castille, half of them were idiots, the other half cretins. It irritated her to see her national stock so degraded. Free Sail itself had once been Castilian but it had been a minor settlement, abandoned in favor of more prosperous islands when war with the jackals of Albion had forced Castile to consolidate.

“Are you sure this is the place?” the watch commander, a one eyed man named Rodriguez asked, his eyes wide as he beheld her. It wasn’t that Inez was any great beauty. She was closer to thirty than to twenty and her face was sharp and hard. Nor was she possessed of the kind of figure which attracted artists and poets. She was hard and muscular, wiry strength wrapped over a slender frame. Her hair was gathered into the loose bun typically adopted by the women of the Castilian army. It was her family name rather than her looks which impressed Rodriguez for the Galva name was a famous one in her distant homeland. The Dukes of Parma, as the Galvas had been for ten generations, were neither the richest nor the most politically influential but they had piled up honors as soldiers and generals in the unending wars in Medicia and up into the Central Kingdoms. Inez herself had tramped the Golden Road many times, from Videyo to Buucsh and everywhere in between.

“Si, this is where you will find the pirate capitan, an Albionese as I have told you,” she repeated. The watch captain nodded and turned to his men snapping an order. Like a single organism they lifted their weapons and stormed inside. For a moment there was nothing, like a slow match touched to a cannon. Three heartbeats passed then she heard a shout and the crack of a musket. The sudden eruption of noise was enormous. Howls of rage and pain merged with the gunfire, the thwack of musket butts striking flesh. Half a dozen pistols went off and several windows shattered spraying glass out into the streets in glittering arcs. The doors flew open and one of the patrons tumbled out, grappling and biting at one of the town watch. Inez drew her hanger, a broad bladed infantry sword, once ornate but battered and work worn with use, and clouted the pirate over the back of the head with the pommel, dropping him bonelessly to the street. She seized the stunned watchman by the collar and dragged him to his feet, then shoved him back through the door and into the fray.

“Al diablo con eso,” she muttered, and followed the watchman through the door. She had intended the watch to handle this business but it seemed she might have underestimated the clientles willingness to progress to violence. The interior of the tavern was utter chaos. Watchmen were locked in combat with patrons, lashing at them with their heavy cudgels. The Black Fleet pirates were fighting back with bottles, barstools, and other improvised weapons. Swords flashed and pistols cracked, blasting chunks of crumbling plaster from the ceiling. Perversely, an organ player, safely shielded by the bulk of his instrument, was continuing to play a spritely reel as the tavern tore itself apart. Inez ducked a flying bottle and then was caught around the waist by a charging pirate who tackled her into the wall, driving the breath from her lungs, she wrapped her arms around her attackers shoulders as she bounced off the plaster wall, then drove her knee into his crotch sending him staggering back. Spinning, she thrust out her hands against the wall and kicked out with both feet, catching the pirate in the chest and sending him flying into the path of one of his comrades. Both of them went down in a tangle of arms and legs that emitted quite the most sulfurous curses Inez had ever heard. Inez glanced around wildly, seeking the man she had come for. It was impossible to focus on the swirling melee. Here a pirate headbutted a watchmen sending teeth and blood flying, there a watchman smashed a chair to kindling over the back of a roaring Black Fleet man, then picked him up and pitched him over the bar at one of his compatriots. A blond prostitute stood on a low balcony naked to the waist, Inez watched as she took a swig of rum from a bottle before pitching it into the crowd, laughing delightedly and completely indifferent to which side it struck.

Inez struck out towards the most intense knot of action, she snatched up a fallen musket and battered left and right, clearing her way towards the ruck with all the subtlety of cutting through jungle with a machete. With shocking rudeness the ruck exploded as a tall man erupted up from under the table in a shower of peanuts. He snatched up the table like a pavisse shield and charged through the combatants like a siege ram, screaming at the top of his lungs. She had just enough time to curse before he crashed into her, sending her sprawling backwards. Inez crashed onto her back just in time for him to stomp on her chest. Fortunately the half plate she wore beneath her black and buff coat saved her ribs. She seized his leg and yanked hard, sending him spinning to the ground with a stream of anatomically improbable profanity. She leaped onto his back, her hand moving rapidly. The Albionese easily threw her aside and tried to make another dash for the door, but the delay in tangling with her had given the portwatch time to catch up. Half a dozen musket butts and cudgel blows rained down on him in the space of a few seconds and he tumbled to the ground. The watch, hard pressed by the rioting pirates, many of which were now brawling with each other, seized Neil by the arms and dragged him from the tavern, forming a rearguard that bristled with muskets, broken bottles and cudgels. The embattled posse burst out onto the street, dragging their captive as well as their wounded with them. Everyone sprawled in the street gasping for air. A few seconds later several unconscious port watchmen were tossed unceremoniously through the shattered windows.

“You had better be right about this guy,” the port watch leader snapped at Inez, wiping blood from a split lip with the sleeve of his tunic. Inez reached into Neil’s pocket and withdrew a folded piece of paper. She appeared to withdraw it anyway, in truth it had been up her sleeve in exactly the same fashion on might use to palm a card in a game of whist. She unfolded it and handed it to the watch commander.

“Just as I told you, a plan to hand control of Free Sail to the Black Fleet,” she declared, nudging Neil with the toe of her boot.

"Clap him in irons!"

The struggle began anew, six men doing their best to keep a hold of him as Neil rolled like a river serpent. An arm reached to try and wrap around his neck and the pirate sunk his teeth in the meat of the forearm, sending the guard in a fit of screaming. Neil stepped awkwardly, his arms moving quickly, punching and elbowing and kicking where he could. "Blighters slippery as an eel!" One of them complained. Neil had no illusions of getting out of the bind, but he wanted to make it as tricky as possible. Maybe they would make some sort of mistake. Finally they managed to grab a hold of both his wrists, and the woman who watched casually put her knife away and waited for the opportunity to punch him square in the midsection for good measure. Neil doubled over and they managed to finish the arrest.

"What the-" He coughed, gasping a lungful of air. "What the hell did I do!?"

The woman and the sergeant stared at him before they exchanged looks. Ok, that was a fair point, he silently conceded. "What did I do for this specifically?"

The question was met with a cudgel to the face, and he dropped. Only the men keeping a hold of him kept him from slamming face first into the dirt laden street. After that, Neil faded in and out of consciousness. Sometimes his feet were dragging, othertimes he recalled stumbling along, but before he knew it, the Iron Hulk came into view. He had seen the strange prison a handful of times, but had never actually been tossed in. Free Sail was a city of runaways from the law, only the worst were thrown in, and only rarely did any leave. As the name suggested, it was originally made from a beached war galleon, hollowed out and filled on the inside with stone and iron bars, and the dungeons went below the surface as the years progressed and the offenders increased. They rounded the corner, and Neil found himself at the entryway, made of timber and brass fitting on the starboard side.

"Keep moving, boy!" One of the watchmen said, tired of hauling Neil around.

"Hey! Wait a minute!" He said, beginning to struggle again. His eyes swung to the woman, narrowing on her. "Who are you?"

She snorted, pinching his nose between her thumb and forefinger. "No importa quién soy, Albioness!" She snapped, and Neil had to fight to get his nose back. She did not seem unamused, but her face did not smile. There was an intensity and danger there, something he would have found endearing had Camilla not stolen his heart. The thought of his lover brought back his willingness to fight, and he decided to get in another jab.

"Ah! Oh, am I suppose to have taken Castillian lessons now!? HaY mUcHoS lIbRoS eN lA bIbLiOtEcA?" He mocked.

As the pirate predicted, he received another series of bludgeons, not least of which from the woman, before he was tossed into the darkness of the Iron Hulk, where the screams and laughter of the insane perpetually echoed, and the worst blackguards in the seas were your own companions.

Camilla wondered what the ruckus was as she passed by the tavern, glancing down the roadway to see the port watch leading someone away. She wondered what could have possessed them to risk the ire of the Black Fleet, a dangerous group to antagonize. Putting it out of her mind she continued down the worn cobbles to the harbor. As always the vista took her breath away, dozens of ships lay at anchor in the bay, some snugged up to jetties, others with deeper draughts, anchored out in the bay. Small boats rowed too and fro from the shore to the ships. These carried enterprising locals, loudly proclaiming the quality of the local fruits, liquor, and companionship they carried. Camilla could see one such vessel, just setting off from the shore, almost away from the weight of pineapples and lychees piled into it. Two more contained brightly dressed prostitutes who were screeching at each other about who had the right to go to which ship, emphasizing their points with gestures and curses which almost peeled the faded white paint from their respective vessels. Camilla walked out onto the docks, weaving her way between the sweating steevedores and local fisherman, until she found a likely looking sailor leaning against one of the bollards a cigaro clenched between his teeth.

“Can you direct me to the Pendragon sir?” she asked, trying to make her voice flat and boring the way people from Albion spoke. Judging from the man’s raised eyebrow she was at best partially successful.

“Aye miss,” he replied, lifting his chin to indicate a ship on the far side of the harbor, tied up to a long rickety looking jetty. “Yon handsome brig over thar.” Camilla followed his gesture to the ship in question, a mid sized brig with the rampant lion of Albion flying from her mizen topmast. She was a handsome ship, timbers turned gold from oils and with a handsome red stripe painted below her bulwark, the same color picking out gunports along her side. The figurehead was plain wood rather than gilt but clearly rough to resemble a snarling dragon.

“Kind of plump looking isn’t she?” Camilla asked idly, comparing the Pendragon to Castillian barque across the jetty.

“Aye, Balandar construction I reckon, they like em beamy as a butter tub, for which I can't say’s I blame ‘em,” the old sailor chuckled.

“A good ship for heavy seas they say. See more of ‘em down round Aracao and the Weatherlies, running chocolate or sugar back to Frizia, shallow draughted too for as beamy as they are, good for going up rivers or in close where there is no proper port,” the sailor went on expansively. Camilla nodded along, her own nautical knowledge having begun only a few weeks ago and mostly consisting of where to relieve herself and which side to vomit over in heavy weather.

“You taking passage in her yer ladyship?” the sailor asked, drawing deep on his cigaro and then tapping the ash into the bay.

“Something like that,” Camilla replied, giving the old salt a smile. She wished she could pass him a coin, but her finances were skint enough as it was. Bidding him a fair wind she headed down the waterfront towards the Pendragon eager to get aboard ship.

“Thought you might show up here,” a familiar voice called, as Antonio Domenquez stepped from an alleyway, a cutlass in his hand. Port had not agreed with the man, his face looked haggard as though from heavy drinking but his hand was steady on his sword.

“I told you I would be seeing you again, found myself someone at the exchange willing to pay me top dollar for some dukes sprat,” he sneered. Camilla drew back her cloak with her elbow to reveal the hilt of her own blade.

“My maid used to say I had a face to die for,” Camilla retorted, “but I doubt she meant it literally.” Domenquez laughed and lunged forward as though to grab her before she could unsheath her sword. Camilla twisted and slapped Domenquez, throwing him off balance. Steel rasped as her side sword came free of its scabbard in time to catch the round house slash of Domenquez’ cutlass with a musical ring of steel on steel. The denizens of the docks opened around them as they struggled to get clear of the potential reach of blades. Camilla controlled the measure, using the longer reach of her blade to make Domenquez come towards her, stamping his feet and cutting with the slightly curved edge. She parried him away low, feet moving in the graceful steps her swordmaster had proscribed. Domenquez came on like a bull, using his speed and power to drive her back, keeping his blade angled to defend his body. She parried again, then riposted, slashing the cuff of his buff coat open with the razored edge. Domenquez laughed.

“I hope you didn’t pay your prissy dancing instructor too much,” he sneered.

“Who knows, I had servants for that,” she retorted, launching her own attack with a series of patinandos that forced Domequez to draw his heavy blade in close to his body. The sailor was sweating with effort and hissing curses at her. In frustration he caught her blade in a vertical parry and sprang forward, swinging his fist at her head. Camilla ducked, turning the momentum into a roll which carried her clear of a frustrated backswing, her blade rising into a guard.

“Stop skipping around,” he growled.

“Stop fighting like a fairy,” she retorted, and they sprang together, exchanging half a dozen blows in the course of a few seconds. Their sword caught in a coule and Domenquez leaned into it shoving her backwards so that she backed into a warehouse wall. He snarled in triumph as the impact robbed her of footwork and cut in with his blade. Camilla dropped, catching her weight on one arm and kicking off the wall to roll under his attack. Domenquez, not to be caught a second time, kicked out at her, the blow impacting her hip and turning her roll into a sprawl. He drove a second kick down at her, then leaped backwards as her sword point came very close to robbing him of any chance of progeny. Flexing her body, Camilla arched to her feet and backed away.

“This has been entertaining, but I do have places to be,” Camilla said, striving to make her tone sound board. Domenquez was sweating hard and his face was a black fury. However he had expected this confrontation to go, it so far wasn’t following the script.

“Foolish of you to think I came alone,” Domenquez said as two men appeared behind her, both armed with cudgels.

“Who could have predicted you could make friends?” Camilla retorted as all three men rushed in at her. She took a quick step to the side, then leaped up onto one of the bollards and out over the water to the gasps of the onlookers. Her hand caught a line dangling from one of the yards used to sway in heavy cargos which swung her in a wide arc towards the next jetty. She landed in a crouch, teetering on the edge of the jetty with both arms windmilling, her sword arm a distinct danger to those who had, until a moment ago, thought themselves safe. She smirked triumphantly at Domenquez and his goons, now separated by twenty feet of water. The smirk vanished as one of them produced a pistol and leveled it at her. Squeaking in most unlady like fashion she ducked behind a crate a moment before the crack of the pistol sounded. A sack of grain five feet away sprung a leak, unleashing a flow of golden grains as the pistol ball split it.

“Don’t kill her you slack jawed son of a whore, she is worth a fortune alive!” Domenquez screamed. Enough encouraged, Camilla leaped to her feet and sprinted down the jetty towards the docks, turning right at the base as her pursuers rounded the corner. She dodged the startled steevadores as she bolted for the Pendragon, ducking to slide under a yard being muscled into place by a half dozen sailors. A watermelon seller cursed her as one of his fruit exploded as one of Domenquez’ henchmen ignored his instructions and fired a second pistol at her. A sailor in a dirty canvas smock, perhaps having heard Domenquez shouting about how much she was worth grabbed at her, and she twisted aside, leaping up onto a pile of crates lining the jetty. Ignoring threats and curses she ran across the uneven surface at full speed, her feet drumbing loudly as she ran. Domenquez and his men raced after her, red faced and howling with fury. One of them collided with a woman carrying a wicker basket of fish, sending seafood flying in all directions. Another pistol cracked though where the ball went she had no idea. The improvised walkway of crates was coming to an end and she thrust her blade into her belt and leaped, performing a neat summersault to land on the jetty. Another few steps and she had reached the Pendragon, dashing past the surprised sentry and up the gangplank onto the deck. They sentry dropped his bottle of rum and grabbed for his own cutlass yelling abuse and questions in equal measure. Camilla turned to see Domenquez and his thugs standing on the dock, red faced and furious. Several sailors, including Hasting were on deck, some gripping belaying pins and other improvised weapons.

“Problem?” Hasting asked, wiping tar from his hand onto his jerkin.

“Just you wait you bitch!” Domenquez screamed, pumping his fist in a rude gesture. Camilla leaned against the bulwark and blew a lock of hair out of her face.

“Parting is such sweet sorrow,” she observed philosophically.

“Met the love of mine, aye a lad so fine
Oh away in the salty Antilee!
I was tied down below on an old ship of the line
You and me Polly and Abaddon makes three
On the cold and billowing sea!”

The crew of the Pendragon hauled on the main brace cables, trimming her squaresails to the offshore breeze. The trim little vessel began to heal over and gather speed. The sailors pulled the ropes tighter, sheeting the sails as firmly as they could before belaying the lines. Now that they were clear of the headlands the winds were building and the Pendragon shaped to it, her fine prow slicing though the cerulean waves a ‘bone in her teeth’ as the cutwater churned white.

Camilla leaned over the bulwark watching as a trio of dolphins skipped and played in the churning wake. It was a good sign at the beginning of an adventure she had been told but somehow it didn’t cheer her. It seemed like she had spent an eternity in Free Sail, even if it had only been a few days, and after months at sea she felt no closer to her goal.

“Dove sei Aneillio?” she asked the ocean which, characteristically, provided no answer beyond the chuckling gurgle against the hull.

“Ah Bon Giorno Signoritta,” Sir Edmund said in horribly accented Mercian. Camilla smiled charmed both by the man’s effort at her language and by how quickly the veneer of civilization seemed to have slid from the aristocrat. Gone was the lace frock coat and cocked hat, now he wore a white cotton shirt with a red silk coat and a rather piratical looking bicorn. He looked like a buccaneer and adventurer of the old school and Camilla felt that Red Ed was much closer to the man’s soul than Captain, The Honorable, Sir Edmund, Lord South Quay was. Camilla found she liked him for it.

“My lord, shall I pipe than hands below?” Hastings asked formally, his expression seeming irritated she was still managing to stand on the deck. No matter what strange alchemy the sea worked, Hastings, it seemed, remained Hastings. Edmund looked up at the commissioning pendant and considered it.

“No, though I’d admire we harden up another point to the wind, we are bound to hit the full southerly once we clear the island’s lee and I don’t want to have to tack if the wind comes sou’sou-east as the bastard thing is like to do after noon in these latitudes,” he replied, then gave Camilla an apologetic look.

“If you will pardon the nautical parlance My Lady,” he grinned.

“Camilla please, My Lady was mia madre, and you do not know enough languages to scandalize me,” she teased and he touched the brim of his hat in acknowledgement.

“Now what the devil is that about?” Edmund asked, drawing his spy glass from his belt and peering back towards the shore. Camilla followed his gaze to see another ship exiting the harbor. It was larger than the Pendragon and rode more heavily in the water, seeming to smash it’s way through the waves where the Pendragon sliced. Camilla was no expert but the billowing tan sails looked distinctly amateurish compared to Sir Edmund’s crews efforts.

“Another ship, nothing unusual surely?” Camilla noted.

“Not heavily loaded, and I don’t recognise her, looks more like a sixth rate man of war than a trader, though she lacks the gunports for it,” Edmund mused.

“Is she one of …. how do you say it… your cruising fleet?” Camilla asked. Edmund guaffed loudly.

“Lord no, the mess she is making of her stays any Albion captain would have shot himself out of sheer embarrassment, maybe a Don or a damned Val Dor, God bless the luckless bastards," Edmund snickered.

“But she flies no national colors and I don’t care to look at her, see the long nines on her foredeck, heavy chase guns for a merchant,” Edmund mused. Camilla did not see, but she suspected she would if she knew more about naval matters or had a spy glass.

“Could she be a pirate, there were Black Fleet in the taverns,” Camilla worried.

“Aye could be that, might explain why everything is such a mess if they set off after us in a hurry. All their standing rigging slack and their sails in harbor gaskets,” Edmund mused.
“They are chasing us you think?” she asked, her alarm growing.

“Mmmm… maybe,” Edmund replied, his face darkening. “I didn’t exactly keep my expedition a secret but it seemed unlikely to attract the attention of the powers that be.”
“You don’t seemed to worried about them, they seem a bigger ship than ours, more guns?”

“Many more, probably eighteen twelve pounders, more if they are Dons, the silly buggers will overload a ship, breaks the backs of the ship within a decade you know.”

“So why aren’t you worried?” Camilla demanded. A wolfish grin split Edmund’s face and Camilla was sure she had been right about the man's true nature.

“Because my dear lady… they will have to catch us first.”