by Clare Sager
Pausing, she scanned the area. No guards – this was a good spot.
She eased into the dark water. It was cool but bearable, and any discomfort was offset by the welcome rightness of being in the sea. She swam slowly, taking a sweeping route across the few hundred feet to the Venatrix, the lap of waves covering her muted sloshing.
Once she was close to the starboard side, furthest from the wharves, she shifted to only kicking below the surface, making no sound as she passed into the ship’s shadow.
Lords and Ladies, if she wasn’t an even prettier prospect close-up. The planks of the hull had been hewn smooth and flush, all butted together and painted black until it almost looked like one piece.
Just above the waterline, the hull gleamed, metallic. Copper-sheathed. That must have cost a pretty penny. Then again, the Navy could afford it, and she’d heard how much it helped with speed and avoided the need to careen so regularly.
Now she was closer, a couple of male voices in soft conversation drifted across the water.
Moving slowly to avoid splashing, she scaled the Venatrix’s hull. Here at starboard, she was in shadow, and once she reached the shrouds, she’d just appear a deeper shadow in the darkness. If she climbed up the port side, she’d end up silhouetted against the distant lights of the town, and even a careless watchman would spot her right away.
Foot over foot, hand over hand, the motion of climbing came easily after all these years, and her muscles sang with the movement, despite the weight and chill of her wet clothes.
This was what she needed – action. This was what had been missing in that former life – ‘ladylike’ had no room for climbing or night swimming. Hells, ‘ladylike’ had no room for anything she did now.
Grinning, she climbed up onto the foremast’s ratlines – she’d sweep fore to aft, so methodical even Perry would approve. Eight men dotted the deck – the night watch – but they all looked towards the wharves, backs to her. After all, who’d be approaching from the open sea?
The creak of ropes under her hands and feet merged into the chorus of a ship at rest – the breeze, flexing timbers, the sighing sea. Still, Vice breathed as quietly as she could with the exertion of climbing aloft. The night air cooled her wet clothes and the sweat forming on her brow.
Almost there.
Her heart thundered as she passed twenty feet above the heads of the men on watch. Their lamps on the forecastle shone, almost as distant and small as stars from up here. And then she planted her hands on the yard and clambered onto the footropes.
So far, so good.
Up here the slight bob of the deck on the near-still water felt like a swell, but she’d developed the sea legs for this long ago. Within seconds, she side-stepped across to the first roband that lashed the foresail to the yard.
It was a shame to do anything to damage such a fine ship, but the sails could be lashed in place again easily, no permanent damage done. Although her best attempts at persuading the Captain to agree to capture the Venatrix had only received a non-committal response, that didn’t mean she’d never have the vessel.
“Now,” she whispered, patting the yard before drawing her knife, “this is only temporary, my lovely. I’ll take good care of you when you’re mine.”
The whisper of steel sawing against rope made her grimace – it felt loud to her straining ears, but it wouldn’t be heard from deck.
Currently, the sail was folded and stowed on top of the yard. If she cut all the robands as well as the lashing at the corners, when the Venatrix’s crew went to set sail, it would just flap from the bottom edge, held up by only a handful of lines. Completely useless.
Now – she looked up another twenty feet to the fore topsail on the next yard and the topgallant above that – if that were to somehow happen to every sail on the ship, he’d be stuck.
Grinning at the thought, she went back to work.
Hanging just below the rail, Vice leant back to look up at her handiwork. Although you couldn’t tell from here, all sails on the fore and main masts were now detached from the yards, save from the lines holding them stowed. A typical hand going about their duties, untying those lines to unfurl the sails wouldn’t ever think to look in the exact spots where she’d left the cut ends tucked away.
She could leave the spanker – he wouldn’t get far with that alone. That left just the mizzen top to sabotage. Her gaze drifted down the mizzenmast to the raised quarterdeck, housing the captain’s quarters.
If Blackwood did have a clue to Drake’s treasure, that’s where he’d be keeping it.
And she was here now. It would be rude not to at least have a look.
With those lamps and the watch on deck, it would be easiest to sneak into the captain’s quarters through the stern windows. She could just climb around, slip through an open window – it was warm enough that he’d leave one open for ventilation.
It took no time to scurry up the mizzenmast shrouds and sabotage the mizzen top, but on the way down she had to pause above one guard’s eye level as he made a circuit of the deck. When he passed without raising the alarm, she exhaled and continued below the rail.
At last, her feet landed on the narrow ledge that the shrouds fastened into. Hands tight on the final stretch of line, she took the opportunity to pause and catch her breath. Her arms were warm now and –
Footsteps.
One of the watch on another circuit, no doubt.
Ears straining, she shuffled aft on the ledge. She made no noise – he wouldn’t hear. She nodded to herself and took a long breath.
This next stretch was tricky – she needed to drop down, so her hands were on this ledge and her feet … well, there would be nowhere for them to go. The hull might give her bare toes a tiny amount of grip, but there were no real footholds.
Then, with her weight on her hands, she needed to reach aft and grab the carved moulding around a small, fixed window, climb across that and around the corner to the stern.
Shaking her arms out, she nodded.
She could do it.
With another deep breath, she crouched, gripped the ledge, and let her feet drop. For a heart-pounding moment, they swung, the sudden weight dragging on her arms, but she gritted her teeth and tucked her legs in, gaining control.
Biting her lip, she released the ledge with her left hand and reached across to the window. It was only a foot and a half, maybe two, but with her entire weight hanging on her right arm, it felt like leagues.
She huffed out what was meant to be a soft breath, but it came out as a grunt, just as her fingers closed on the moulded window frame.
Bollocks.
The footsteps came closer.
She stilled, feet braced, arms burning. If she moved, she might make more noise.
At least it was still dark – wait, no, was that lighter sky to the east? Damnation, what time was it? Surely it wasn’t approaching dawn already. She swallowed, palms slicking with sweat, hair on the back of her neck prickling. That was always a warning, some gift of her fae blood.
If that man – his footsteps still sounded, steady, approaching – if he looked over the rail, he’d see her right away. There was no cover here.
The dagger at her hip was suddenly a leaden weight. She’d killed before, yes, but they were people who’d been given a chance to surrender and hadn’t taken it. They’d made the decision to defend their ship and its cargo with their lives. When they faced her, they had weapons in their hands and knew they were in a fight.
This was some poor sod who’d signed up to the Navy and whose bad luck had put him on watch tonight. He was just taking a stroll around deck, investigating that grunt he’d heard.
Gods, her arms burned.
She gritted her teeth, pulse roaring in her ears.
A hand landed on the rail three feet above her head.
Eyes widening, she stared at the thick fingers, the short fingernails, the dirt beneath them.
Go away!
Actually, that she could do – or m
ake him do.
Holding her breath, she let her feet hang and her awareness spread. The sea at night, cooler, fuller, thick with tiny creatures.
She swallowed. Focus. Those organisms weren’t relevant right now. She needed –
Booted feet shuffled on deck near her head.
It had to be now.
The curved hull of the Venatrix sat light in the water – huge to her, but insignificant against the vast ocean – and just the other side, if she could push a wave …
A splash sounded from port.
Sudden steps – the man turning? – and a questioning sound. “What the –”
Clomping footsteps, fast, but fading to port. Shadows on the mast shifted – he must have taken one of the lamps to peer over the side.
Releasing her breath, she sagged, closing her eyes for a second. Thank the gods, the Lords, and the Ladies.
Her arms really were on fire when she continued her climb around the Venatrix. She passed the fixed window, then reached for the gilded carvings decorating the corner to stern. A last, straining burn on her arms, then she left the window, feet scrabbling and finally tucking into a spot above a curled oak leaf.
Squeezing her eyes shut, she took deep draughts of air, careful this time not to grunt. It was quiet to port, then the footsteps started up again, slowly walking fore.
Oh, Lords. That was close.
It took a minute to manoeuvre around the corner, level with the sash windows to the captain’s cabin. This was another tricky spot, angling out over the water and making her calves and biceps burn.
She needed to get inside as quickly as possible before she dropped into the water.
Most likely, he had an office or a dining room and a separate space for sleeping. That’s what someone had said these naval vessels had for the captain, just like she now occupied what had once been Fitz’s office and he’d retreated to just one room that served as bed-chamber.
She peered in.
Darkness. She squinted past her reflection in the glass – was that the dim outline of a desk and chair? And, further in, to one side … a low shape. A bunk?
Damn, just one room … but it looked unoccupied. Maybe he was sleeping ashore, or maybe he was one of those on deck – she hadn’t got a look at their faces.
Gripping a carved scroll above one window, she wedged her feet into the corners and let go with her right hand. The other arm shook – she must have been climbing for almost an hour now.
“Come on, my lovely,” she whispered and pulled at the window.
Without a sound, it lifted open.
Seemed the Venatrix liked a little sweet-talk. Well, when she came back to claim her, she’d gladly give her all the sweet talk she wanted. Grinning, she patted the windowsill like it was a well-behaved sabrecat and slipped inside.
She landed in a crouch, low and silent. Blinking, she caught her breath and let her eyes adjust to the deeper darkness inside. Her fae blood helped her see better than most people in the dark, but it still took a moment to acclimatise.
Her initial search didn’t turn up much of interest. Logs, books, neatly rolled charts, compass and sextant stowed in boxes alongside. Drawers of carefully folded clothes, a desk with inkwell, copper-nibbed pen, and blotting paper lined up ready for use.
Bloody Navy lot – they’d line up pebbles on a beach if they could.
When she rifled through papers in the little shelves at the back of the writing desk, a cylindrical leather case slid out. At first, she thought it a spyglass case, but it was far too small for that. The tan leather was cracked, and when she lifted it, it weighed little.
A scroll case? It had to be. And scrolls were old. Her heartbeat sped. She turned it over in her hands – this leather looked –
A drake, embossed on the surface. She angled it to catch the scant light, but yes – wings, two legs, curling tail. Definitely a drake. A little crude in execution but it had probably been made centuries ago and would have been knocked about over the years.
Letting out a huff that was almost a laugh, she clutched the case to her chest. This was it – a clue to Drake’s treasure. She bit her lip to hold back any more noise and bounced on the balls of her feet before tucking the case into her shirt – as long as she didn’t go upside down, it would be secure there.
Heart racing, she shoved the other papers back where she’d found them. Everything was in its place, and Blackwood would never know she’d been here.
Grinning at the door leading out to the deck, she saluted. He’d never even imagine she’d been this close.
Vice climbed back out the window and eased it shut behind her. Her muscles’ earlier complaints were forgotten, erased by the excitement thrumming through her veins as she climbed around to starboard.
Blackwood’s ship disabled, and a clue to Drake’s treasure – even Perry would have to admit this was a great coup. And Fitz would surely grant her request to capture the Venatrix the next time they encountered them out on open water. She’d proven her ability to take charge, devise and execute a successful plan, and deal with a problem decisively. What more could they possibly want from a captain?
She bit the inside of her cheek – it was that or laughing out loud with excitement, and this really wasn’t the place, dangling off the side of a Royal Navy pirate hunting vessel. With a couple of deep breaths, she calmed herself and climbed down the hull.
No sound of alarm. A job well done.
Vice paused above the glinting water and clenched the scroll case in her teeth before easing in and swimming away.
The next time she saw the Venatrix, she’d take it as her own.
Setting Sail
“Port, Captain,” the watch shouted. “The Morrigan.”
Knigh’s head snapped up. He’d had a tip-off she was nearby, but this early? A thrill ran through him. If they came into port not realising he was here, he’d be able to close off the harbour entrance, trapping them within. His mouth twitched with a suppressed grin. She thought she’d got one over on him – well this would certainly show her. Who knew the notorious Lady Vice would be so easy to capture? Perhaps he wouldn’t need those distasteful contacts after all.
He strode to port, nodding to his first lieutenant. “Stand by for my orders, Munroe.”
The early morning sun glistened on the waves. From the docks, The Morrigan came, cutting through the water smoothly. Already in port? Damn – they must have been better disguised than he’d realised.
Gripping the rail, he turned his head slightly to shout to his men but kept his eyes fixed on the approaching ship. “Weigh anchor, make sail!”
Munroe relayed the orders, and in moments the shouts had rippled to the furthest reaches of the ship, together with men hurrying to anchor and aloft to obey.
Knigh narrowed his eyes – how was The Morrigan moving at such speed? The tide wasn’t even meant to be high enough yet for ships to pass so easily, but here she came and –
Her. At The Morrigan’s rail, dark hair long and loose in the wind – Vice. Unlike last time he’d seen her, she wore a red frock coat, braid and buttons glinting. Ostentatious, fitted well over her waist and bust – she liked to show off. She’d passed off as a lady and yet here, leaning on the rail, dressed as a sailor, she looked … herself.
Her eyebrows flashed up, and she grinned broadly. “Captain Blackwood,” she called, waving. “Lovely morning, isn’t it?”
His jaw popped with tension. Not just a show-off – cocky with it.
Behind her, The Morrigan’s crew leered at him from their stations. None of them seemed in much hurry.
“Ready port guns,” he bellowed, eyes fixed on her. Not that he could fire in harbour, not without risking others, but she’d hear the command, and it eased his irritation a touch to be doing something.
Almost level with him now, Vice pulled out a pocket watch, making a show of opening and looking at it. “Hope I’ve not woken you too early, Captain.” She slipped the watch away and stretched, giving a theatrical ya
wn.
That bloody woman. A growl sounded low in his throat, and before he knew what he was doing, the smooth butt of his pistol was in his hand. He pulled back the cock, straightened his arm, and took aim over her shoulder.
Just a warning shot. He needed to take her in alive, after all. She needed to face justice, and those fools who sang songs about her needed to see her hang for her crimes.
He squeezed the trigger. Smoke plumed and the crack echoed around the harbour.
Eyes wide, she ducked, glancing over her shoulder where the shot had sailed, clear of her by a foot, and –
And she laughed. Laughed.
Wild Hunt take her – who the hells laughed at someone shooting at them? And, gods, what a laugh – she tossed her head back and even from here, her eyes shone brightly.
Heart pounding the searing rage through his body, Knigh ground his teeth.
Why the hells weren’t they moving? Gods, he needed to get a hold of himself. He swallowed and took two long breaths. In. Out. In. Out.
Unlocking his jaw, he cleared his throat. He was captain, he needed to maintain control. Lords and Ladies knew he couldn’t afford to lose his head, not like last time. Never again.
He blinked. Focus, Knigh. What was the state of his ship? He hadn’t heard the sails unfurling yet, and they’d had plenty of time. They’d drilled this – he ran a tight ship, and they could be ready in four minutes thirty-two seconds.
“Munroe, what the devil’s taking so long with those sails?”
As if in response, the flap of canvas sounded. He blew out a relieved breath – they’d be after her quickly enough, and as soon as they were out of port, they’d be able to fire on her safely. That would teach –
The sound was wrong – that wasn’t a sail catching the wind.
Voices rose in dismay.
“What the –” He turned in time to see all three mainmast sails fall, detached from their yards, so they just fluttered uselessly from their buntlines. Then the foremast sails, too. “How –” His heart clenched, stealing his breath with a moment’s pain. The mizzen topsail followed suit. Only the spanker, staysail, and flying jib remained, and they wouldn’t get the Venatrix anywhere.
