Hauling herself halfway up the side of a moving ship with the soaking chest braced against her body was only half the battle. Next, Larinna was forced to awkwardly stretch her form as far from the ladder as it would go, allowing the soggy chest to dangle in her free hand before taking a one-armed leap toward the railings that bordered the captain’s private deck.
She missed.
The Black Gauntlet had turned at the last second, sending the carved wood out of Larinna’s reach as they swung, about to deliver another volley, causing her to splash gracelessly into the sea for a second time. Spluttering and swearing under her breath, Larinna was forced to climb the ladder once more. She was all too aware that sooner or later, someone was bound to peer over the side and spot her clinging to the ship like an unwanted barnacle to be disposed of.
Her second attempt to leap from the ladder to the railings, powered largely by a rising sense of panic, was more successful. Her outstretched fingers wrapped around a handhold, and Larinna swung herself forward, using her motion to toss the cursed chest aboard. It fell onto the balcony with a dull thud, and she followed it, hooking her legs around the bannisters so that she could topple onto the polished wooden planks on which the ship’s captain might normally stand to enjoy the view.
Not the most elegant way to board a ship, Larinna considered, hoping that the others weren’t watching her through a spyglass. She allowed herself a moment to catch her breath, keeping low against the polished wood, then tried the little side door that led to the captain’s cabin from the balcony. Not only was the door open to the cool sea air, but the key was still in the lock, for Quince’s hubris had blinded him to the possibility that anyone might dare sneak aboard his beloved vessel, and she was able to sidle easily inside.
As she’d expected, the level of opulence in the room was almost obscene. A thick carpet and numerous works of art added splashes of vivid color to the room, while feather pillows and silken sheets served to muffle her footsteps. She longed to steal a trinket or two as a memento, but she knew she had work to do and little time in which to do it. Dragging the captain’s heavy desk up against the door that led to the main deck to block the entrance, she wedged the Chest of Sorrow beneath it. As if on cue, it had begun to sob furiously once again, and she hoped the Black Gauntlet’s cannons were loud enough to muffle the sound.
Larinna returned to the balcony, this time locking the cabin’s side door for good measure in case any of the crew attempted to break into the cabin the same way she herself had, and consigning the key to the bottom of the ocean floor. She cast one final look through the windows, noting with satisfaction that the room was already partially flooded. Before long, she knew, the water would find its way through cracks and rivulets in the floor, dripping down and flooding the unheeded lower decks while the crew was struggling with the cannons above.
She dove overboard, then, staying far below the surface of the waves and out of sight until she was back at the entrance of Thieves’ Haven. As she’d hoped, Ned and the others had finished their preparations and were waiting to cast off, the grin on Larinna’s face telling them everything they needed to know about the success of her plan.
As the Unforgiven’s prow slid into the sunlight and the sails began to billow, her crew got a good look at the Black Gauntlet. She was drifting nearby and listing dangerously, her cannons silent as the crew splashed around inside her in search of a hull breach they’d never find. Only Captain Quince seemed to have guessed the true nature of the subterfuge, for he was slamming his stout form repeatedly and uselessly against the door of his cabin, crimson with exertion and fury.
Adelheid’s crew favored Quince with a mocking salute as they passed, and each of them raised a tankard of grog, drinking cheerfully in a toast to his vessel’s demise. If looks could kill, Quince’s expression as salt water began to slosh into his boots would surely have blown them all to smithereens. They savored his rage until the Black Gauntlet dropped out of sight, lost beneath the crest of a wave, and the sea belonged to them once more.
RAMSEY
Rowenna,
How many months has it been since we last raised a glass together? Too long since you upbraided me for the mud and straw tracked upon your nice clean floor. To write to you is a poor substitute for standing in the warm light of your tavern. Do you still save a stool for me at the bar?
Truthfully, I would find no anger in my heart if you did not. Too many times now I have broken my promise to visit home. To visit her, if she will even see me. It is this place, Rowenna, this Sea of Thieves! Every day I wake to yet more wondrous sights and sounds, and every night I take my rest with the thrill of an adventure riding high in my heart. I cannot abandon it.
I finally have your present, a dueling pistol to hang above your bar. This is no ordinary pistol, though I shall wait until I am able to see your face in person before I say anything more. I wish I could say when that will be, for this night, the night on which I write to you at last, may be the most important night of my life.
What does it mean to be a pirate? Are we, as those back home would declare, mere thugs and criminals who seek to gain from the honest labor of others? Or is there more to the life than greed? Is it ambition that drives us or a desire to shape our own destiny? Tonight, I shall—
Ramsey, muttering under his breath as he always did when trying to grapple with the intricacies of the written word, paused midsentence as Mercia knocked on the door of his cabin. “The last ship just dropped anchor, captain. It’s time we were going.”
“Already?” Startled, Ramsey checked his pocket watch and realized that over an hour had passed since he’d settled at his desk to put his thoughts down on parchment. Grumbling, he got to his feet and fumbled with his greatcoat. Mercia couldn’t help but notice he was dressed rather more finely than normal, but that was to be expected given what was about to happen.
Parley!
Even thinking the world sent a shiver of excitement through Mercia. To call so many pirates together in one place was a risky business, she knew. The odds were high that many of them would be nursing grudges against one another, whether from chance encounters on the high seas, long-standing rivalries that had hardened into bitter feuds over the years, or simply old-fashioned jealousy coming to the fore. Even pirates who had no quarrel could enter a parley with a handshake and leave with their fists swinging once the beer started to flow, decks of cards started to appear, and the first coins began to clatter down on tables. She’d only heard of a couple of such gatherings in her life, and most had ended in bloodshed.
Yes, a parley was a risky business, and though she had some inkling of what their captain was planning for the night, Mercia and the others had still spoken out about the need to be cautious. Shan had suggested holding several smaller meetings on neutral ground, but Ramsey stood firm. This, he said, would be the culmination of his plans, an all-or-nothing wager on the future of the Sea of Thieves.
In the end, they’d settled on inviting three crews to join them at a newly formed outpost known as Golden Sands, though the gathering was certain to attract a number of hangers-on, curious shopkeepers, and assorted ne’er-do-wells who’d turn up regardless. Each of the captains Ramsey had finally settled upon had made both a reputation and a fortune for themselves since their arrival at the Sea of Thieves, and all had expressed a desire to meet with Ramsey in person.
The first to arrive was Eli Slate, a brusque and straight-talking fellow with whom Ramsey had apparently had prior dealings. Mercia knew very little about him, but his ship was as sleek as they came, shining and polished with crimson sails and a brown bear figurehead. Ramsey had informed her that the vessel was named the Morningstar. Out of everyone at the parley, Mercia imagined that Slate would be the most easily convinced by Ramsey’s proposition.
Nobody aboard the Magpie’s Wing knew very much about Ramsey’s second choice, though nobody could deny that he’d certainly made a name for himself. Captain Gideon Graymarrow was a wild and fearsome figure wi
th a long coat and wild, unkempt hair that hung limply around his lanky frame. It was said that he demanded nothing less than utter loyalty from his crew and that his word was absolute—an unusual attitude for pirates on the Sea of Thieves, who tended to treat their crews as equals.
Graymarrow’s crew was granted shore leave only rarely, and he himself set foot on land only when absolutely required. Shan expressed surprise that Graymarrow had bothered to respond to Ramsey’s invitation at all, let alone accept. The enigmatic captain came ashore alone, leaving his ship—a stern and joyless vessel known as the The Twisted Horn—with its sails unfurled and its cannons primed, ready for the first sign of treachery.
The third invitee was something of a wild card, and certainly the most unpredictable guest. She was known only as Briggsy, a nickname she’d acquired thanks to an almost superhuman talent for breaking out of cells and jails of all kinds; she was considered something of a maverick even by pirate standards. She’d disappear for weeks on end and return with wild tales of huge creatures lurking in jungles, ancient stone golems springing to life to protect their treasure, and battles against entire fleets of enemy pirates who’d taken a dislike to her charm and obvious success.
Briggsy also seemed to change her crew when the fancy took her, sometimes leaving her own ship adrift while she sailed under someone else’s flag. Nobody really knew what to make of her, but almost everyone did know of her, so clearly she was doing something right. Her ship, or at least the ship she’d arrived in, was a two-person sloop called the Homeward Dove.
Rathbone had volunteered to keep watch, but Ramsey wanted to show his crew at full strength, so together they locked down the Magpie’s Wing and made their way to the tavern where the parley was to be held. They walked slowly, for each was laden with a number of valuables that would shortly become the primary topic of conversation for miles around. The culmination of Ramsey’s plans, or so he hoped.
There were a few light cheers as Ramsey squeezed his bulk through the door of the tavern, for the drink was already flowing and pirates all around them were gambling, bickering, or singing the shanties whose words they could all agree on. Graymarrow and Slate were not drinking, however, merely standing at opposite ends of the tavern, stiff as statues, gazing levelly at one another and at the crowd without a flicker of emotion.
Ramsey grabbed a table in both hands, moving it into the middle of the tavern where everyone could see it, and on it he placed the box he’d carried with him from the ship. The others did the same, leaving a pile of gilded boxes in the center of the room.
These, as expected, drew the crowd’s attention almost immediately, for they were of a design that none of the assembled pirates had ever seen before. Ramsey knew this with absolute certainty, because the chests had been created by his own hands, shaped with hammer and tongs at the forge until his hands blistered and sweat dripped from his brow. It had taken months of toil, brooding in the depths of Thieves’ Haven among the husks of his failed attempts, but finally Ramsey was ready to return to the Sea of Thieves and claim his rightful place.
“My friends!” Ramsey bellowed, banging two tankards noisily together and quelling the conversation. People were already beginning to shuffle into a loose circle so they could get a look at the enticing treasures atop the table. “The last time I addressed a crowd in this way, it was on the eve of our return through the Devil’s Shroud. We brought with us what we believed to be great treasures—fine rubies and emeralds, golden crowns and silver bracelets for all to see!” The crowd cheered at this, and several mugs were drained.
“The truth of it,” Ramsey continued, “was that we had not yet begun to comprehend the real treasures that awaited us here. Since then, we have all sailed out upon these vast and untamed waters. Sometimes we have been allies, sometimes we have been opponents. All of us have learned that the world is stranger and more dangerous, more alive and fantastic than we ever could have dreamed. Ours is a world of great power and terrible curses! Of vast riches and ancient knowledge that lurks beneath the waves. It is a world so full of mystery and wonder that we could journey for a hundred years and every day it would bring us something new.
“They call this place a Sea of Thieves. But if that is all we are, if we allow our greed to consume us, if we continue to prey upon one another and to steal from a fellow pirate’s pockets instead of celebrating their glory and achievements, then thieves is all we shall ever be. I say to you tonight—rogues and rascals, scoundrels and scallywags alike—that there can be a better way for all of us.”
“The strong prey upon the weak.” It was a hoarse, croaking rasp of derision and it was coming from Graymarrow, who had yet to move from his spot in the corner. “That is not folly, Ramsey, that is fact. A fool who can’t hold his tongue will feel a fist upon his lip, and a pirate who cannot hold on to his gold will wave it goodbye. Who are you, so high and mighty, to tell us that we should be ashamed to think that way, eh? You, who lost his fortune when his hideout was turned over not one year ago!”
This last comment drew a laugh, but also a few jeers and calls of derision—mostly, Mercia noticed, from a gang loitering in the shadows at the back of the room. There was something vaguely familiar about them, though she didn’t recognize their outfits.
“Too right!” called a voice from the crowd. “I came here to get away from Trading Companies and soldiers trying to tell me what I can and can’t do! It’s my life and I’ll live it how I want. Take what I want!” This, too, got a cheer from the back of the crowd.
Captain Slate, who had lit his pipe during the exchange, blew a gently smoking O across the tavern and coughed, lightly. “I agree, at least in principle,” he stated to the room at large. “We’re alone out here, and that gives us our freedom, but these are strange shores. If we keep blowing each other to pieces, squabbling over the same handful of coins, there’ll come a day when none of us can afford to patch up our ships or buy a barrel of grog for our crew. But what are you suggesting, Ramsey?” He turned to face the man he was addressing. “Some kind of treaty? Rules?” More jeers, louder this time.
Stronger now, and wakeful from the slumber of ages.
Belly full and hide toughened enough to brave these unfamiliar waters. Searching and seeking . . .
“Not rules,” Ramsey said, his voice low and level. “Rule. Mine. And as for my fortune, Graymarrow . . .” He swept back the folds of his coat to reveal a large ring of silver keys upon his belt, each as ornate as the boxes on the table, and they were taken in hand as he moved toward the largest of the chests. After a moment’s work with the lock, the lid swung open and every pirate in the place leaned forward greedily. Ramsey had chosen carefully, arranging eye-catching gems and his shiniest gold pieces in a way that practically begged to be sifted and run through grasping fingers.
He let the crowd drink in the sight, just for a moment, and then shut the lid firmly, locking the chest again and slipping the keys back out of sight. “All that I lost in my hideout that day, everything that those cowards took from me, that was barely a day’s plunder!” he boasted. “This is just a fraction of my fortune, and I’ll give it to the first person that can open this chest.” He hefted the box as he spoke and placed it in the middle of the floor, stepping deliberately away.
The room was silent for a moment as more than a dozen pirates stood staring at the little box, as if trying to work out what trick Ramsey might be playing on them. Finally, Briggsy hopped up onto her table and used it as a stepping-stone to leap nimbly over the crowd and land theatrically next to the box. “I shall be your first volunteer, Captain Ramsey,” she declared, sinking down beside the box and drawing an oilskin pouch from a pocket on her breeches. This, it soon became apparent, was filled with a number of slender tools designed to pick and jimmy: the arsenal of a born burglar.
As Briggsy set to work, a number of coin purses began to appear, and soon wagers on how long it would take her to pick the lock were being tossed back and forth. Shan seemed to ingratiate himself
into the crowd with remarkable speed at that point, spitting into his hand and shaking in any number of bets with half a dozen different pirates. More beer was served, and the conversation begin to swell once again as Briggsy, tongue poking impishly between her lips, probed and poked at the chest with practiced ease.
As a full five minutes passed, however, then another ten, the good humor began to sour. Pirate after pirate lost their bets, handing over gold to Shan with reluctance. Finally, Briggsy gave a little grunt, and there was a click, a snap, and her broken tools dropped to the floor next to the firmly locked chest. She swore, scowled at Ramsey, and made a very particular gesture at the box before skulking to the bar to drown her embarrassment in a tankard of grog. There were a few boos and hisses in her direction, but those were quickly silenced when people saw the furious look on her face.
“You put on a fine show, Ramsey,” Slate said wryly, “but I’d wager brute strength’ll succeed where skill fell short.” He accepted a large sledgehammer from one of his crewmen, who’d been sent to procure it from the outpost’s shipwright. He too had come to watch the show, and was now leaning his burly frame against the door in bemusement.
Slate approached the box, getting a feel for the weight of the hammer in his hands and taking a couple of practice swings. At last he gave a grunt of effort and the great metal oblong descended, striking the lock once, twice, three times. On the fourth blow, the head of the hammer came away from its wooden handle, arced neatly through the air, and landed on the foot of a nearby pirate, much to the amusement of his crewmates. Slate, panting, stooped down to glare balefully at the lock, which hadn’t been so much as scuffed by his efforts.
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