The Price of Victory.

The sea had begun to swallow the last traces of the battle.

Pieces of timber drifted in the wake of the Catherine’s Fancy, mingling with broken spars, torn canvas and the occasional dark stain that spread across the water before disappearing beneath the waves. The ship’s guns had fallen silent, but the deck remained a place of hurried activity. Sailors moved between the wounded, the dead and the tangled wreckage left by the boarding action.

William stood near the mainmast, his shirt darkened with blood that was not entirely free from his own. A shallow cut crossed his left cheek, and his right hand ached from the blows he had exchanged with the enemy captain. He ignored both injuries.

“Tim! How many?”

The bosun approached, wiping his hands on a cloth that had once been white. “Three dead, Captain. Another four wounded badly enough that they’ll need looking after for a while. We’ve got two more with cuts and bruises, but they’ll live.”

William nodded grimly. “Names?”

“Jack’s got them written down. I’ll bring you the list once we’ve finished sorting the wounded.”

“See that you do. Have the dead washed and wrapped. We’ll give them to the sea before sunset.”

“Aye, Captain.”

“And the prisoners?”

“Eight of them fit to stand. Two wounded, one of those badly. We’ve got them secured below, under guard.”

“Make certain they receive water and food. Have our surgeon see to their wounded before he does anything else for ours.”

Timothy nodded. “I’ll send word to him.”

“Good. And make certain the prisoners understand they’re to cooperate with him. I won’t have anyone making his work more difficult than it needs to be.”

“Aye, Captain.”

William glanced towards the captured vessel, which sailed a short distance off their starboard side. Her sails were battered but serviceable, and her hull appeared to have escaped the worst of the battle. A few patches of fresh damage showed where the Fancy’s guns had struck her, but she remained afloat and, with some work, could be made seaworthy.

“Once our own wounded are seen to, I want the prisoners’ injuries assessed properly. Anyone who can be moved safely can go aboard the prize with the others. The badly wounded stay here until the surgeon says otherwise.”

Tim gave a short nod and went to carry out his orders.

William watched him go before turning his attention to the captured ship. She was a fine vessel beneath the damage, smaller than the Fancy but faster, with a clean hull and a good spread of canvas. Someone had invested considerable money in her upkeep.

More importantly, someone had sent her to kill him.

“Jack!”

His first mate appeared from behind a group of sailors hauling a length of broken rigging out of the way. “Captain?”

“Take a boarding party over to our prize. I want her secured, her weapons accounted for, and her damage inspected. Get her sailing under our colours as soon as you can.”

Jack glanced towards the vessel. “Planning to keep her?”

“Unless you’ve developed a sudden fondness for giving away perfectly good ships.”

Jack grinned. “Not in the slightest.”

“Good. You’ll be her acting captain.”

The grin faded into surprise. “Me?”

“You heard me.”

“But, Captain, that leaves you short a first mate.”

“I’m aware of the difficulty. Perhaps I’ll have to manage somehow.”

Jack chuckled, though his expression remained thoughtful. “Who do you want me to take?”

“Enough men to secure the ship without stripping this one bare. Take some of the prisoners with you if they’re fit to move. I want the rest treated here. Any sailor who gives his word to behave and follows our orders is to be treated as a prisoner of war, not a dog to be kicked about.”

“And the captain?”

William’s gaze moved towards the hatch leading belowdecks. “I’ll deal with him.”

Jack followed his eyes, then nodded. “Aye, Captain.”

“One more thing. You’re responsible for that ship now. Her stores, her rigging, her guns and her crew. If she sinks because you’ve neglected something, I’ll make certain you spend the rest of your days wishing you’d stayed a common sailor.”

“Comforting words, sir.”

“I try to inspire confidence.”

Jack laughed and began gathering a boarding party.

William watched him go. Jack was young, but he had proved himself capable time and again. Commanding a ship of his own, even temporarily, would be a useful test. If the vessel survived the voyage, William might have a second ship to add to his growing collection of problems.

He looked towards the horizon. Three ships had come after them. One lay beneath the waves, another had limped away towards the Ragnar coast and their fate, and the third was now his. Someone had wanted the Catherine’s Fancy stopped. William intended to discover who.

The wounded were gathered in the lee of the deckhouse, where the wind was less biting. Kitty had come up from the galley with hot water, clean cloths and whatever she could spare from the ship’s stores. She moved between the injured with the brisk efficiency of someone who had long ago learned that a frightened man was often more troublesome than a bleeding one.

Nearby, Old Ken sat on an overturned barrel while another sailor tightened a bandage around his forearm. His wooden leg rested at an awkward angle, and his face was pale beneath the grime, but he seemed more irritated by the attention than troubled by his injury.

“I’ve had worse,” he told William as the captain approached.

“I’m sure you have.”

“Had a musket ball tear through my thigh once. This is nothing.”

“Then you won’t object to sitting quietly while Kitty makes certain it stays nothing.”

Ken grumbled something under his breath.

Kitty shot William a grateful look.

“Thank you, Captain. Perhaps you can explain to the old goat that bleeding all over my deck is inconsiderate.”

“I’ll add it to the ship’s regulations.”

William moved on before Ken could protest.

The dead had been laid out beneath canvas. Three of his own men. Men who had eaten at his table, laughed in his galley and trusted him to bring them home. He paused beside each of them, looking at faces he had known for years. There would be time to mourn later. There always was. For now, there were survivors to tend to, prisoners to question and a ship to keep afloat.

He found Oliver near the rail, standing apart from the others. The young man’s face was pale, his eyes fixed on the deck as though he could still see the blood pooling there.

“Kelham.”

Oliver startled and straightened. “Captain.”

“How are you?”

“I’m well.”

William studied him. The young man had cleaned his pistol and returned it to its holster, but his hands were still shaking. “You don’t look well.”

“I said I’m well.” There was a sharpness in the answer that surprised them both. Oliver lowered his eyes immediately. “Forgive me, Captain.”

“No need. You’ve been through a great deal today.”

Oliver swallowed. “I killed a man.”

William did not pretend to misunderstand. “Yes.”

“He was scarcely older than I am.”

“Perhaps.”

“I keep thinking about his face.”

William leaned against the rail beside him. “It’s an unpleasant thing, the first time you kill a man.”

Oliver turned to him, looking for some sign that the captain was making light of his distress. He found none. “Does it ever become easier?”

William considered the question. “Some things become familiar. That’s not the same as easy.”

“I didn’t know what else to do. He was coming at me, and I thought he was going to kill me.”

“Then you did what you had to do.”

“But he might have had a family. A mother. A wife, perhaps.”

“He might have.”

Oliver’s jaw tightened. “And now they’ll never see him again.”

“No,” William said quietly. “They won’t.”

William had no comforting lie to offer him. He could tell Oliver that the man had deserved it, that a pirate’s life was a choice, that the young sailor would have killed him without hesitation. All might be true. None would change what Oliver had done.

“You can regret that he died,” William said. “You can even feel sorry for him. But don’t mistake that for a reason to regret defending yourself. He came aboard this ship with a weapon in his hand. He chose to fight.”

Oliver nodded, though the movement was stiff.

“You won’t forget it either,” William continued. “Not entirely. The trick is to learn to live with it without allowing it to rule you.”

William clapped him once on the shoulder and left him to his thoughts. He had no idea whether the advice would help. He only hoped Oliver would not have to learn its truth too many times.

The enemy captain sat in the ship’s small chartroom with his wrists bound before him. He was a lean man in his forties, with a narrow face, a dark beard and a scar that ran from the corner of his mouth to the underside of his jaw. His clothes were of good quality, though blood had soaked one sleeve and dried across the front of his coat. He had been given water and a chance to have his injuries treated. He had accepted the water and refused the treatment.

William entered with a pistol tucked into his belt and a short sword at his hip. He closed the door behind him. The captain watched him without speaking.

“Your men have been fed,” William began. “Those who are wounded are receiving treatment. The dead will be given a proper burial at sea.”

The captain’s expression remained blank.

“You’ll find that I have no particular interest in tormenting your crew. They fought as sailors do, and they’ll be treated accordingly. If they give their word not to cause trouble, they’ll be kept under guard until I decide what to do with them.”

“How generous.”

William pulled out the chair opposite him and sat. “I thought so.”

“You killed my men.”

“Your men attempted to board my ship and kill mine. Several of them succeeded in the latter. You’ll forgive me if I don’t feel particularly guilty about the outcome.”

The captain’s mouth tightened.

William rested his forearms on the table. “Who sent you?”

No answer.

“Who paid for your ship?”

Silence.

“Who gave you your orders?”

The captain leaned back as far as his restraints allowed. “You can ask until your tongue falls out, Captain. I won’t answer.”

“Are you so loyal to your employer?”

“I am loyal to my own interests.”

“Then let us discuss those. You have a ship, or rather, you had one. You have a crew, some of whom are dead and others who will be spending the foreseeable future under my watch. You have lost your freedom, your command and whatever reward you expected for attacking me.”

The captain's eyes narrowed.

“And yet you refuse to tell me who sent you. That suggests either extraordinary loyalty or an extraordinary fear of what happens if you talk.”

William let the silence stretch.

At last, the captain gave a humourless smile. “You have no idea what you’re dealing with.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

“Then you should have learned to listen.”

William rose from his chair and walked to the small porthole. The light outside had brightened, reflecting off the sea in narrow strips. “I have a man aboard who has a particular interest in this matter,” he said. “He was struck with a sword during your attack. The blade went through his chest.”

The captain’s face showed no change.

William turned. “From one side to the other.”

Still nothing.

“Apparently, he survived.”

That earned him the faintest flicker of interest.

William returned to his seat. “I’d like you to meet him.”

The captain gave a short laugh. “You think I’m frightened of a man with a sword wound?”

“No,” William replied. “I think you might find him informative.”

He went to the door and opened it. “Thorvenhold.”

The Ragnar stepped inside. He had changed his bloody outer garments for a clean tunic, though he had made no attempt to conceal the damage to his body. The wound in his chest remained uncovered. It was a dreadful sight, a dark, ragged opening that passed straight through his torso. There was no bandage, no stitchwork, no sign that anyone had even attempted to close it.

Thorvenhold turned slightly as he entered, and the captain could see through the hole. Beyond it lay the far wall of the room. A narrow shaft of daylight shone through the opening, bright against the shadowed timber. The captain stared.

Thorvenhold glanced down at himself. “Ah,” he said. “I see we’ve reached the part of the conversation where my appearance becomes relevant.”

The captain had gone very still.

William watched him closely. “Do you recognise my companion?”

The man’s mouth opened, but no sound emerged. Thorvenhold moved nearer to the table. The captain recoiled so violently that his chair scraped against the planks. “Keep him away from me.”

Thorvenhold stopped. “I assure you, I have no desire to embrace you.”

“What are you?” The captain stared at the hole in Thorvenhold’s chest. His eyes darted to the man’s face, then back again, as though he expected the wound to close or the light to disappear.

William folded his arms. “Now, perhaps you’ll tell me who sent you.”

The captain shook his head, but the movement was frantic rather than defiant. “No. No, you don’t understand. We were told…”

“Told what?”

The captain swallowed hard. “That you were dangerous. That your ship had to be stopped. That there was a man aboard who might be difficult to kill.”

William’s expression hardened. “Who told you?”

“Edward Ravenhill.”

The name seemed to settle over the room like a cold mist. William had suspected it. He had expected it, even. But hearing the confirmation spoken aloud was different. “Tell me everything.”

The captain looked from William to Thorvenhold and back again. “He came to us three days ago. His ship was half-rotten, black as a funeral barge, and the men aboard it…” He shuddered. “They weren’t men. Not properly. He offered us more gold than we could earn in a year. All we had to do was find your vessel and make certain it never reached its destination.”

“How did he know our route?”

“He knew where you were going. He knew you’d leave Løvenskiold and sail for Tabakkust.”

William exchanged a brief glance with Thorvenhold. “Did he tell you why?”

“He said you had something that belonged to him. Something he’d spent twenty years trying to recover.”

“The Logos,” William murmured.

The captain looked sharply at him. “He called it that, yes. He said you’d stolen it from him.”

Thorvenhold’s expression did not change, but his mismatched eyes had become intent. “What else did he tell you?” he asked.

The captain hesitated. Thorvenhold took one slow step closer. The man immediately began speaking again.

“He said there were three ships, that we were to attack together and overwhelm you before you could reach Tabakkust. The first was to engage your guns, the second to cripple your rigging, and we were to board you while you were occupied. We were to take the captain alive if possible, but the rest were of no concern.”

William felt a cold anger rise in his chest. “No concern?”

“He said you might have information he needed. He didn’t care what happened to anyone else.”

“And the other two ships? Who commanded them?”

The captain gave their names, then described the captains and the arrangements Ravenhill had made. He spoke quickly, as though each new detail might purchase him a little distance from Thorvenhold’s terrible wound.

“Where is Ravenhill now?” William asked.

“I don’t know. He said he would have left Still Water before we attacked you. He told us that if we succeeded, we were to rendezvous at a place north of Tabakkust. If we failed, we were to scatter and make for the coast.”

“Which place?”

“I don’t know the name. He gave us a set of bearings and told us to follow them if we survived.”

“Do you have them?”

The captain nodded towards his coat. “In the inner pocket. Written on a scrap of parchment.”

William signalled to the guard outside. A moment later, the parchment was retrieved and handed to him. He unfolded it and studied the figures. They were coordinates, or something close enough to them to be useful. He folded the paper and slipped it into his coat.

“Did Ravenhill tell you anything about the man you were ordered to kill?”

The captain’s gaze shifted unwillingly to Thorvenhold. “He said there was a dead man aboard your ship, but I didn’t believe him. He told us not to waste time fighting him if we could avoid it. Said we should watch him instead.”

Thorvenhold tilted his head. “Watch me?”

“He wanted to know what you could survive.”

For the first time, the Ragnar’s expression lost its humour.

William glanced at the wound in his chest. The sword had been driven through him during the boarding action. Whoever had struck him had not simply been trying to kill him. Ravenhill had known about Thorvenhold before ever meeting him.

“What else?” William asked.

“That’s all. I swear it.”

“Did Ravenhill tell you what he intended to do once he had the Logos?”

“No.”

“Did he say how he knew where to find me?”

“No.”

“Did he mention Johannes Chatham?”

The captain shook his head.

William studied him for another moment. He had learned what he could. There might be more, but the man’s terror was no longer the terror of a prisoner afraid of punishment. He had seen something that had broken the foundations of what he believed the world to be.

William stood. “Take him back to the brig.”

The captain sagged with relief. “You’ll keep your word about my men?”

William looked at him. “Your men will be treated according to their conduct. Those who behave themselves will have nothing to fear from me.”

“And me?”

William said nothing. The guard led the captain out.

Thorvenhold remained by the table, looking down at the patch of sunlight that had shone through his chest. “I dislike being the subject of other men’s experiments,” he said.

“So do I.”

“Ravenhill knows more about me than he should.”

“He knows more about all of us than he should.”

Thorvenhold looked towards the door. “And what will you do with the captain?”

William’s face hardened. “He was paid to kill us. He brought his men aboard with the intention of murdering mine. He has given me what I wanted, and now he’ll discover what that information is worth.”

Thorvenhold watched him for a long moment. “You have changed, William.”

“Have I?”

“You used to take prisoners for ransom.”

“I still do.”

“Not this one.”

William did not answer.

Oliver found the wounded prisoner shortly before noon. The man was sitting against the bulwark near the aft end of the deck, his wrists chained in front of him. He was the last of a group of prisoners bound together. A sailor stood guard nearby, watching him with the weary suspicion of someone who had spent the morning trying to keep frightened men from doing foolish things. Oliver recognised him immediately. The young boarder. The man he had shot. For a moment, Oliver could not move. He had seen the man fall. He remembered the sudden report of the pistol, the flash of movement and the sickening sight of the young sailor collapsing to the deck. He had believed him dead. Yet here he was, breathing, with a bloodied bandage wrapped around his side.

Oliver approached cautiously. “May I speak with him?”

The guard looked at him. “You know him?”

“No. I…” Oliver hesitated. “I was the one who shot him.”

The guard’s expression changed. He looked from Oliver to the prisoner, then back again. “I’ll stay close.”

Oliver nodded and crouched a short distance from the wounded man. The prisoner watched him with dark, wary eyes. He was perhaps twenty years old, with a narrow face and fair hair that had fallen across his forehead. He looked younger now than he had during the battle. “My name is Oliver,” he said.

The man did not reply.

“I’m sorry about your wound.”

The prisoner’s eyes narrowed. “You shot me.”

“Yes.”

“And now you’re sorry?”

Oliver looked down at his hands. “I didn’t want to kill you.”

“But you did.”

“I thought you were going to kill me.”

“I was.”

The bluntness of the answer left Oliver momentarily speechless.

The prisoner shifted against the bulwark, wincing as the movement pulled at his bandage. “Then why are you here?”

Oliver struggled to find an answer. “I suppose I wanted to know if you were going to live.”

The man gave a short, bitter laugh. “Why should you care?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then go away.”

Oliver should have obeyed. He knew that. The man had no reason to welcome him, and Oliver had no right to demand forgiveness from someone he had wounded.

Yet he remained where he was. “Were you forced to come aboard?” he asked.

The prisoner’s face hardened. “No.”

“Did you know what you were being paid to do?”

“We were told to take your ship.”

“And if we hadn’t surrendered?”

The man looked at him.

“You would have killed us.” Oliver could not deny it.

“Then we’re both lucky, aren’t we?”

The words were spoken with such bitterness that Oliver felt them like a slap.

He looked at the bandage. “Have they treated you properly?”

“They’ve given me water. The cook brought food. One of their men looked at the wound.”

“That’s good.”

“Is it?”

Oliver frowned. “What do you mean?”

The prisoner leaned his head back against the timber and closed his eyes. “It means I’ll live long enough to answer for what I’ve done.”

Oliver felt a chill. “You don’t have to think of it that way.”

The young man opened his eyes again. “What other way is there?”

“You could be sent home. You could start again.”

“Start again?” He stared at Oliver as if the suggestion were absurd. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“No. I don’t.”

“You don’t know where I come from. You don’t know why I signed aboard. You don’t know what I’ve done before today.”

“Then tell me.” For a moment, Oliver thought he might.

The prisoner’s face softened, and his gaze drifted past Oliver towards the sea. His lips moved, but no sound emerged. He looked suddenly exhausted, as though the effort of remaining upright had become too much. Oliver waited.

After a while, the young man spoke again. “I thought I was going to be rich.”

Oliver glanced at him. “What?”

“When I signed aboard. They told us there’d be gold. Enough to buy land, a house, a life. I thought I could go somewhere nobody knew me.” He gave a hollow laugh. “Foolish, wasn’t it?”

“Not necessarily.”

“You really are an innocent bastard, aren’t you?” Oliver flinched at the words but said nothing.

The prisoner watched him for a moment, then looked away. “Do you have a family, Oliver?”

The question caught him off guard. “Yes.”

“Lucky you.”

Oliver thought of his father’s house, his brother Thomas, the long corridors and the endless expectations that had shaped his childhood. He had spent much of his life resenting the future chosen for him. He had never considered that someone else might look at his life and see fortune.

“I don’t know if I’m lucky,” he said. “But I have people who care about me.”

“Then don’t waste it.” The prisoner lowered his head.

Oliver waited for him to say more, but the young man fell silent. He looked so wretched that Oliver felt a sudden, uncomfortable urge to reach out and reassure him. He stopped himself. He had no idea whether the gesture would be welcomed or whether it would provoke another outburst.

“I’ll see if I can get you some more water,” Oliver said at last.

The prisoner nodded faintly. Oliver rose and turned towards the guard. He had taken no more than two steps when he heard the chain move. It was a sharp, sudden sound. He looked back. The young prisoner had scrambled to his feet. Despite his wound, he moved with desperate strength, dragging the chain between his wrists towards a heavy iron fitting set into the deck. Before the guard could react, he looped the chain around it and threw his weight backwards.

Oliver understood what he was doing a heartbeat too late. “Stop!”

The prisoner hurled himself over the rail. The chain snapped taut. The iron fitting groaned under the strain, and the young man vanished over the side with a splash. For one terrible instant, the chain stretched out across the deck, quivering like a living thing. Then it went slack.

“Man overboard!” The guard lunged for the rail.

Oliver reached it a moment later, staring down into the water. The prisoner had surfaced briefly, his chained hands struggling against the weight dragging him under. He kicked once, twice, then disappeared beneath the waves.

“Get a line!” someone shouted.

A sailor threw a coil of rope towards the rail. Another ran for a boat hook. Men rushed to help, but the chain had caught beneath the water, and the prisoner was already sinking.

Oliver stared helplessly at the patch of sea where he had vanished. “Pull him up!” he shouted. “For God’s sake, pull him up!”

The guard and two sailors hauled at the chain. It scraped against the iron fitting, then jerked tight again. They could feel the weight at the other end, but the prisoner was too far beneath the surface to reach.

William came running from the quarterdeck. “What happened?”

“He…” Oliver’s voice failed. He pointed towards the rail. “He jumped. He wrapped his chains around the fitting and jumped.”

William looked down at the water. “Cut the chain!”

A sailor scrambled for an axe. Another seized a knife and tried to work the chain free, but it had twisted around the fitting and jammed beneath a bolt. The axe came down twice before the links finally broke. The loose end whipped across the deck. The sailors leaned over the rail, searching the water, but there was nothing to see. Only the slow, restless movement of the sea.

William stood motionless for several seconds. “Get a boat down,” he ordered. “Search the area. If he’s still alive, we bring him aboard.”

The crew moved at once, though nobody needed to be told that the chances were poor.

Oliver remained at the rail, gripping the timber so tightly that his knuckles had turned white. “He was talking to me,” he whispered.

William turned towards him. “What?”

“He was talking to me. He was telling me about his life. He asked if I had a family.” His voice began to shake. “I thought he was getting better. I thought he might…” Oliver stopped, unable to finish.

William looked back at the water. “Sometimes a man can decide he has no future left, even when one is standing right in front of him.”

“But I told him he could start again.”

“You did.”

“I told him he could go home.”

William said nothing.

Oliver turned on him, desperation breaking through his composure. “Why didn’t he believe me?”

“Because he wasn’t listening to you, Oliver. He was listening to whatever he’d been telling himself long before you ever met him.”

The words did little to comfort him.

The boat was lowered. Two sailors climbed into it and began searching the water, while another stood ready with a grappling hook. The sea gave nothing back. After several minutes, William ordered them to continue searching until there was no reasonable hope of finding the man alive.

Oliver watched the boat disappear behind the swell.

He had struck a man, causing him to be killed in battle, and now another had chosen to die rather than face what came afterwards. The two deaths were different, yet they had left him with the same awful feeling of helplessness. He had thought that saving a life might somehow balance the one that was taken. Instead, he had watched another man slip beyond his reach.

William placed a hand on his shoulder. “Come away from the rail.”

Oliver shook his head. “I can’t.”

“You can. And you will.”

“I should have stopped him.”

“You couldn’t have known what he intended.”

“I was standing right there!”

“And he made his choice in the space of a heartbeat. You cannot be expected to anticipate every desperate act a man might commit.”

Oliver’s eyes shone, but he refused to look away from the sea.

William’s voice softened. “You tried to speak with him. You treated him as a person when it would have been easier to see him only as an enemy. That matters, Oliver.”

“Not to him.”

“Perhaps not. But it matters all the same.”

Oliver finally turned away from the water. His face had gone grey, and he looked as though he might be sick.

William guided him towards the deckhouse, away from the gathering sailors and the place where the chain had been cut free.

“Go below. See Kitty for some rum. Get some rest.”

“I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep.”

“Then sit somewhere quiet until you can think clearly again. You’ve done enough for one day.”

Oliver hesitated. “Captain?”

“Yes?”

“What happens to men like him?”

William looked towards the sea one last time. “Sometimes they find a way back. Sometimes they don’t.”

“And the ones who don’t?”

William’s expression became distant. “We remember them.”

He left Oliver with those words and returned to the business of command.

By late afternoon, the dead had been committed to the sea. William stood beside the rail as the last wrapped body slid from the plank and disappeared beneath the waves. The crew observed a moment of silence. Even the prisoners, gathered under guard near the mainmast, lowered their heads. The sea accepted them without ceremony.

When it was done, William turned towards the captured captain, who had been brought up from the brig under guard. The man had been told what was expected of him. He had been given the chance to make peace with his fate, though he had spent the journey up arguing that he had already provided everything William wanted to know.

William listened without expression. “You have told me Ravenhill’s name, his intentions and the destination he gave you,” he said. “That information has been useful.”

The captain seized on the words. “Then you have no reason to kill me.”

“I have several reasons.”

“You gave your word that my men would be treated honourably.”

“And they have been. They’ll continue to be treated honourably, provided they behave themselves.”

“What about me?”

William regarded him coldly. “You are not your men.”

The captain glanced towards the rail. A narrow plank had been brought out and laid across the side, its far end extending over the open water.

His face drained of colour. “No.”

William said nothing.

“You can’t do this. I’ve told you everything.”

“You told me what I needed to know after refusing to speak until you saw something that frightened you.”

“I gave you the information!”

“And I have kept my word to your crew.”

The captain struggled against the guards. “This is murder!”

William’s expression remained hard. “You came to my ship intending to murder me and everyone aboard. You were willing to have my men cut down for gold. You would have done it without a second thought.”

“That was business!”

“And this is the end of yours.”

The captain looked around for support, but the other prisoners stood silent. Some watched with grim resignation. Others could not bear to meet his gaze. He turned back to William.

“You can’t send me over the side. I surrendered!”

“Your men surrendered. I struck you down.”

“I’m a captain!”

“So was I, long before you ever heard my name.”

William stepped aside as the guards led the man towards the rail.

The captain began to struggle in earnest. “You’re a bloody pirate!”

William looked at him with a cold, almost weary expression.

“Yes,” he said. “I am. Bloody Bill.”

The captain was forced onto the plank. He looked down at the water, then back towards William. The fear in his face had become naked and desperate. “Please.”

For a moment, William said nothing. Then he gave a small nod.

The guards released the captain. He stumbled forward, arms flailing for balance. The plank creaked beneath his feet. He tried to turn back, but a sailor blocked his way.

“Captain! Please!”

William did not move.

The man took another step. Then another. At the end of the plank, he stopped, staring at the water below. The wind caught his coat and tugged it out behind him. He turned once more towards the ship, his mouth working soundlessly. The captain fell. His scream was brief. He struck the water feet first, vanished beneath the surface, then rose again with a frantic splash. He tried to swim towards the ship, but the current carried him away from the hull.

No rope was thrown.

The crew watched in silence as the man’s struggles weakened. He called out once more, but the wind took his words. Then his head slipped beneath the surface, and the sea closed over him.

William turned away. “Clear that plank,” he ordered. “We have a ship to sail.”

The sailors moved at once, though few looked comfortable with what they had witnessed.

Across the deck, Oliver stood frozen. He had seen men die in battle. He had watched a wounded prisoner choose death over captivity. Now he had watched William send a man to his death after he had surrendered. The captain had deserved punishment. Oliver could understand that much. The man had come aboard intending to kill them all. But he had also given them the information they needed. And he had been begging for his life.

Oliver looked towards William, searching for some sign of regret. The captain was already speaking with Timothy about the condition of the ship, his voice steady, his manner composed. It was as though nothing had happened. Oliver felt something inside him shift. Until now, he had believed that William’s reputation was merely the exaggeration of frightened merchants and defeated enemies. He had seen the captain fight with courage, spare an enemy who had fallen at his mercy, and comfort a young man shaken by his first kill. He had begun to believe that the stories of Bloody Bill belonged to another man. But that man had been standing at the rail all along.

William Kent could be generous. He could be honourable. He could show kindness to strangers and loyalty to his friends. And he could also decide that a man should die, then watch without flinching as it happened.

Oliver looked away. For the first time since leaving Still Water, he wondered whether he truly understood the man he had chosen to follow.

The sun was sinking when Jack returned from the captured vessel. He came aboard with a report, a list of the damage and a look of satisfaction that he made little effort to hide.

“She’ll sail, Captain. Needs some work on the rigging and there’s damage to her starboard rail, but nothing we can’t repair. Her hull’s sound, and she’s got enough stores aboard to keep a crew going for a good while.”

“Guns?”

“Six decent carriage guns, two smaller pieces aft, and enough powder to make her dangerous. She’s no match for the Fancy in a straight fight, but she’s quick.”

“Crew?”

“Most of them are accounted for. I’ve left the wounded where they are until they can be moved safely. The rest are secured, and they’ve agreed to follow orders.”

“Good. What’s her name?”

Jack gave a brief smile. “The Wren.”

William raised an eyebrow. “A small bird for a ship that tried to bite our heads off.”

“Perhaps her former captain had a sense of humour.”

“Perhaps he lacked imagination.”

“Shall I have the name painted over?”

“Not yet. A ship ought to earn a new name before we give her one.”

Jack nodded.

William studied his first mate for a moment. “You’re comfortable taking command?”

Jack’s expression grew more serious. “I am. She’ll need a few more hands than I’ve taken over, though. And I’ll need someone who knows her rigging better than I do.”

“Choose from the prisoners only if they volunteer to serve under you. I won’t have you forcing a man to work for us at swordpoint.”

“And if none of them volunteers?”

“Then we’ll find another way to man her.”

Jack smiled faintly. “You really do intend to keep her.”

“I do.” William looked towards the captured vessel. The Wren rode the swell beside them, her patched sails catching the evening breeze. “Ravenhill has made one mistake,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“He sent three ships to destroy us, and he’s given us a second.”

Jack laughed. “Something tells me he won’t be pleased.”

“I should hope not.”

The first mate sobered. “What will you do now?”

William drew the parchment from his coat and unfolded it once more. The bearings Ravenhill had given the captain were still there, written in a cramped hand. He had studied them several times and had yet to decide whether they led to a place Ravenhill knew or one he merely expected William to seek.

“We continue to Tabakkust,” he said. “Johannes’s journals may tell us what Ravenhill has spent twenty years trying to recover. If Abigail still has them, she may be our best chance of understanding the Logos.”

“And if Ravenhill gets there first?”

“Then we’ll have to be quicker.”

Jack glanced towards the darkening horizon. “And the ship he sent away?”

“The Ragnars may have caught her. If they haven’t, she’ll have a damaged rig and a long journey ahead of her. Either way, she’s no longer our immediate concern.”

“And Ravenhill?”

William folded the parchment. “Ravenhill is always our concern.”

He looked across the deck. Sailors were finishing their work, the wounded were being settled below, and the surviving prisoners were receiving their evening meal. The Fancy had lost good men, and there would be more difficult days ahead. Yet she remained afloat, her crew still loyal, her guns still serviceable. And now she had a consort.

William turned to Jack. “Take the Wren ahead once we’ve finished repairs. Keep her within sight, but far enough away that we can manoeuvre independently if we’re attacked again. If you see anything suspicious, signal immediately.”

“Aye, Captain.” Jack paused before going. “Will?”

The use of his name rather than his title made William look up.

“Oliver’s taken this hard.”

William glanced towards the deckhouse, where the young man had disappeared after the prisoner’s death. “I know.”

“He’s a good lad. He’ll need time.”

“Time is something we have very little of.”

“Still,” Jack said, “you might remember what it was like to be young.”

William’s face tightened. “I remember it rather well.”

Jack studied him for a moment, then nodded and went to prepare his ship.

William remained alone by the rail as the last light drained from the sky.