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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.