The morning tide lapped against the hull of the Cormorant as dockworkers loaded the last of her cargo. Longshoremen rolled casks of salt pork up the gangplank, followed by barrels of hardtack and sacks of dried beans. The ship''s hold already brimmed with bales of processed wool, iron ingots, and twenty casks of quality wine goods worth nearly nine thousand large silver coins when delivered to Port Westmark.


    First Mate Harlan Blackwood oversaw the loading with a weathered scowl that had been etched into his face by twenty years at sea.


    "Steady with that!" he barked as a barrel wobbled precariously. "Drop that and it''s coming out of your wages."


    Two deckhands rushed forward to stabilize the load. Reed Turner, the younger of the pair, gritted his teeth as the weight strained his shoulders. His companion, an older sailor named Morris, muttered a curse under his breath.


    "The First Mate''s in rare form today," Morris whispered as they secured the barrel. "Must''ve had vinegar with his breakfast."


    Reed nodded, wiping sweat from his brow. Six months at sea, and he still wasn''t used to the backbreaking labor. But he''d signed on for a year, and the fourteen large silver coins per month was more than he could ever make back in his village.


    Captain Fletcher emerged from his cabin, a sea chart tucked under his arm. A competent shipmaster of fifteen years, Fletcher was neither beloved nor hated by his crew of twenty-four simply respected for his ability to deliver cargo and men safely across the Eastern Sea.


    "Blackwood," he called. "How much longer?"


    "Another hour, Captain," the First Mate replied. "The manifests match what we were promised."


    Fletcher nodded, pleased. This voyage would be a profitable one if all went well. After accounting for the crew''s wages nearly five hundred large silver for the round trip port fees, provisions, and the usual bribes to harbor officials, they''d still clear a handsome profit. He turned his attention to a figure standing near the harbormaster''s office a man who didn''t fit the usual dockside crowd.


    The stranger approached the gangplank with measured steps. He wore a long gray coat despite the warm morning, cut in a style that wasn''t local but not so foreign as to draw excessive attention. His face bore no remarkable features aside from eyes that seemed to take in everything without revealing anything in return. A single leather traveling case was his only luggage.


    "Captain Fletcher," the man said, extending a small pouch that clinked with the unmistakable sound of silver. "I believe we had an arrangement for passage."


    Fletcher took the pouch, weighing it in his palm before tucking it away. Twelve large silver coins a fair price for a private cabin and meals on an eighteen-day journey. "Indeed we did, Master...?"


    "Vale," the man replied. "Corvus Vale."


    "Very well, Master Vale. Blackwood will show you to your quarters." Fletcher gestured to the First Mate, who looked less than pleased at being assigned the task.


    Blackwood led Vale to a small but private cabin near the stern. "We sail with the midday tide," he said curtly. "Meals are taken in the common area, though you may request service in your cabin for an additional charge."


    Vale nodded, setting his case down carefully. "That won''t be necessary. I prefer simplicity."


    Blackwood left without another word, returning to the loading operation. As he supervised the final preparations, he found his eyes drifting back to the passenger''s cabin. Something about the man made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, though he couldn''t say why. In his experience, that feeling was never without cause.


    Three days at sea found the Cormorant making good progress. The winds had been favorable, filling the sails and driving them eastward across calm waters. The crew had settled into their routine, watches changed, meals were served, minor repairs attended to.


    Reed found himself on the forenoon watch, mending canvas under the midday sun. His fingers, once soft from farm work, had grown calloused from handling rough hemp ropes and weathered sailcloth. Nearby, the ship''s cook, an older man named Garrick, scraped weevils from the ship''s biscuit before pounding it to make a dough with the meager fat drippings saved from breakfast.


    "How''s your first deep-water voyage treating you, lad?" Garrick asked, working the dough with practiced hands.


    Reed shrugged. "Better than I expected. No storms yet."


    "Don''t tempt fate," Garrick warned, glancing at the cloudless horizon. "The Eastern Sea can turn vicious without warning."


    Their conversation died as Master Vale emerged from below decks. The passenger spent most of his time in his cabin, appearing only for meals and occasional walks around the deck. He spoke little, answering direct questions politely but never initiating conversation. Now he stood at the rail, gazing out at the horizon with an unreadable expression.


    "Odd one, isn''t he?" Garrick murmured once Vale was out of earshot. "Keeps to himself. Not that I blame him with this lot of unwashed scoundrels about."


    Reed glanced up from his work. "What do you think his business is?"


    "Not ours to wonder," Garrick replied, though his tone suggested he''d done plenty of wondering himself. "Men who travel alone usually have reasons for keeping to themselves."


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    Vale remained at the rail for nearly an hour, statue-still except for the occasional shift of his eyes scanning the horizon. When he finally returned below, Reed realized he''d been holding his breath without knowing why.


    The next few days passed in the monotony that characterized long voyages. Reed learned to savor the simple pleasures a dram of watered rum with the evening meal, the shifting beauty of the sea at dawn, the rare moments of rest between endless tasks.


    On the evening of the sixth day, Morris regaled the younger sailors with tales of his previous voyages. The veteran sailor had a gift for storytelling, and even those who''d heard his adventures before gathered to listen in the cramped crew quarters.


    "...and that''s when the Harbormaster of Silverport accused Captain Thorenson of smuggling," Morris was saying, enjoying the rapt attention of his audience. "Three galleys surrounded us. Thought we were done for."


    "What happened?" Reed asked, caught up in the story despite himself.


    Morris grinned. "The Captain had paid the proper bribes to the right officials. The Harbormaster was just looking for an extra cut. We waited them out for two days before the Port Governor himself came to sort it all. Cost the Captain four standard gold coins to settle the matter, but we kept our cargo and our freedom."


    The sailors laughed appreciatively, though a few exchanged nervous glances. Stories of corrupt officials were common, but tales of pirates had been increasing of late. The eastern shores were becoming dangerous as warlords and outlaws grew bolder.


    From his corner bunk, the ship''s carpenter spoke up. "Pirates wouldn''t show such restraint. My brother sailed on the Meridian last spring. They found her drifting three weeks later, crew slaughtered to a man."


    The mood in the quarters sobered instantly. Reed felt a chill despite the stuffy air.


    "The Eastern Strait is safe enough," Morris insisted, though his confidence sounded forced. "We''ve made this run a dozen times without trouble."


    But as the lamps were doused and the sailors settled into their hammocks, Reed couldn''t shake the carpenter''s words. In the darkness, he found himself straining to hear beyond the creaking of timbers and the sound of waves against the hull, listening for sails on the horizon.


    On the seventh day, the wind died.


    Captain Fletcher stood on the quarterdeck, concern evident in the tight lines around his mouth. What had been a steady breeze at dawn had gradually diminished until the sails hung limp. The Cormorant still moved, carried by momentum and ocean currents, but their speed had dropped dramatically.


    "How long do you think it will last, sir?" Blackwood asked, joining him at the rail.


    Fletcher shook his head. "Impossible to say. Could be hours, could be days." He gestured toward the southwest, where heat distorted the horizon. "There''s weather building there, but it''s moving slow."


    The crew worked listlessly in the growing heat, their movements sluggish and their spirits dampened. Without wind, progress was minimal, and every day delayed meant less profit at journey''s end. The food wouldn''t stretch indefinitely, and water was already being strictly rationed half a cup per man, three times daily.


    By midday, the ship had slowed to a crawl. Reed helped raise additional sails in the faint hope of catching any breeze, no matter how slight. Sweat soaked his shirt as he worked, the sun beating down mercilessly on the exposed deck.


    "Boy!" Blackwood called from below. "Get aloft and keep watch. Your eyes are younger than most."


    Reed climbed readily, grateful for the task. From the crow''s nest, he could see for miles in every direction. Endless blue water stretching to the horizon. He settled in, scanning methodically as he''d been taught.


    An hour passed, then another. The stillness was unnerving, broken only by the occasional call from the deck below or the cry of a distant seabird. Reed was about to signal for a replacement when he spotted something to the west, a dark smudge on the horizon.


    He squinted, shading his eyes against the glare. The smudge resolved into shapes. Low vessels moving across the water. His stomach tightened.


    "Sail!" he called down. "Western quarter!"


    Captain Fletcher was at the rail in moments, his prized brass spyglass in hand. Reed watched him scan the horizon, his expression hardening.


    "How many?" Blackwood demanded when the Captain lowered the glass.


    "Two galleys," Fletcher replied grimly. "Moving fast."


    "Merchants?"


    Fletcher''s jaw tightened. "No merchant runs galleys in these waters."


    The words hung in the air like a death sentence. Pirates. Without wind, the Cormorant was a sitting target.


    "All hands!" Blackwood bellowed. "Battle stations!"


    Reed descended rapidly, joining the frantic activity on deck. Sailors rushed to secure loose items, distribute the few weapons aboard, and prepare for what might come. The Cormorant was a trading vessel, and her crew were sailors, not fighters.


    Fletcher gathered the men amidships. "Two galleys approaching from the west," he announced, his voice steady despite the gravity of the situation. "They''re making good speed with oars. Likely pirates."


    A murmur of fear rippled through the crew. Morris swore softly, and the carpenter clutched the lucky bone charm he kept on a leather cord around his neck.


    "We have limited options," Fletcher continued. "We can try to outrun them if the wind returns, but until then, we prepare to defend ourselves."


    "Against two galleys?" someone protested. "Captain, they must have thirty fighters on each!"


    "Plus oarsmen," Blackwood added grimly. "Probably seventy, eighty men total."


    Fletcher silenced them with a raised hand. "We don''t know their intentions yet. They may be looking for an easy target, not a fight."


    No one believed it. Pirates didn''t approach in force to parley or trade.


    "Get whatever weapons we have distributed," Fletcher ordered. "Belaying pins, marlinspikes, anything that can serve. If" He broke off as a shadow fell across the deck.


    Master Vale stood at the edge of the gathering, watching with that same unreadable expression. Reed hadn''t even seen him emerge from his cabin.


    "Captain," Vale said, his voice unexpectedly calm. "Perhaps I might observe these vessels? I have some experience with nautical matters."


    Fletcher hesitated, then handed over his spyglass. Vale studied the approaching galleys for a long moment.


    "Eastern Strait pirates," he said finally, returning the glass. "I recognize the markings on their sails. They won''t negotiate."


    A heavy silence fell over the crew. Everyone knew the reputation of the Eastern Strait pirates brutal men who left no survivors.


    The next hour passed in tense preparation. Sailors fashioned makeshift weapons or prayed quietly. Some carved brief messages into small wooden tokens, pressing them into the hands of shipmates with whispered requests to deliver them to loved ones if they survived.


    Reed found himself helping Garrick sharpen kitchen knives, the whetstone making a rhythmic scraping sound that did nothing to calm his racing heart.


    "Ever been in a fight, lad?" Garrick asked.


    Reed shook his head. "Just village brawls. Nothing with real weapons."


    "Aim for the throat or belly," the cook advised grimly. "And don''t hesitate. They won''t."


    The galleys drew steadily closer. Through the spyglass, Fletcher could now make out figures moving on their decks. Sun glinted off metal weapons being readied.


    "How much longer?" Blackwood asked.


    "An hour," Fletcher replied. "Maybe less if they pick up speed."


    Reed felt sick. An hour until he would likely die. He thought of his mother and sisters back in their village, of the life he''d barely begun to live. Around him, other sailors seemed lost in similar thoughts, their faces pale with fear.