Somewhere near an Island name Ashport
The smell of salt and tar clung to everything—the ropes, the wood, even her skin. Mira spat over the side of her narrow skiff, watching the dark water swallow the foam. The sail above her strained under a sharp wind, carrying her eastward toward the low smudge of land on the horizon.
A crate of smoked mackerel sat lashed in the bow, covered with a patched tarp. Underneath tucked between the fish, were sacks of coarse flour and a jar of saffron the size of her fist. The flour was for the kitchens. The saffron… well, that was for a man with more gold teeth than sense, and a temper that could sink a ship faster than cannon fire.
She pulled the tiller to correct her course, scanning the sea. Out here, you learned to keep your eyes open.
Ashport belonged to no banner. Too many reefs for the navy's heavy ships, too many coves for their patrols to search. Pirates thrived here like barnacles on a poorly maintained hull.
Mira seen enough strange shapes under her keel at night to keep a hand close to her knife when the moon was full.
Something caught her eye to port—a pale shape bobbing between the swells. She squinted, shading her eyes.
A body.
Face-down. Clothes torn. Tan skin the color of old parchment.
Her first thought: he must got been throw away its not my problem.
Ashport was full of dead men. Fishing one out was a good way to find yourself dead too, especially if whatever killed him came sniffing back.
She adjusted the sail, letting the skiff glide past. The body drifted in her wake, turning slowly in the chop. For a moment, one limp arm reached toward her boat as if in plea—then the swell rolled it under again.
Mira set her jaw and kept her eyes on the horizon.
By midday, the island rose clearer ahead—black cliffs on the windward side, a slope of sand and palm to the lee. She rounded a jutting headland, and the stink of smoke and brine washed over her. Shanty roofs huddled between the palms, their boards warped by salt and sun. The "dock" was just a line of weather-bleached planks nailed into pilings driven crooked into the sand.
Three men in mismatched coats lounged there, bare feet in the surf, cutlasses at their belts. One had the black-and-green scarf of Torren's crew—good. She wouldn't have to talk her way in.
"Afternoon," she called, shipping the sail and letting the skiff nose into the shallows. "For the kitchens."
They didn't help her drag the crate up the beach. She didn't expect them to.
Inside the town—if you could call it that—the air was thick with frying oil, spilled rum, and the buzz of flies. A pair of women argued over the price of bread in a dialect Mira didn't recognize. Somewhere, a fight broke out; no one turned to watch.
The cookhouse was a long shack near the center, smoke curling from a bent chimney. She shouldered the door open with her hip and slid the crate onto the scarred counter.
Torren's man counted the fish, prodded the flour, and pretended not to see the saffron. That was how things worked—you didn't name the thing you weren't supposed to have.
Business done, she stepped back into the sunlight. The tide was already shifting; if she wanted to be out past the reef before dark, she'd need to move.
Evening draped Ashport in red-gold when she reached the skiff.
That was when she saw it—the body she see in the journey he was still here.
It lay half-submerged near the mooring post, caught where the tide had pushed it into the shallows. The waves rocked it gently, like a mother soothing a child.
She cursed under her breath. Either the currents had worked some strange loop… or the man hadn't been as dead as she'd thought.
As she stepped closer, the truth showed itself in a faint, ragged breath. His lips were split and bleeding, his eyes closed, skin tight over sharp cheekbones. His clothes—what was left of them—were fine-cut once, but torn and salt-stiff now. One hand still clutched a short knife, as if his body hadn't gotten the news that the fight was over.
Mira stood there, weighing her choices.
Leave him, and he'd be gone by dawn or take him…
She just cursed under her lips "Damn you," and bent to hook her hands under his arms.
He was lighter than she expected, all bone and soaked cloth. She rolled him into the skiff with a grunt, his head lolling against the side. Water pooled under him, tinged faintly pink.
"Don't you bleed out in my boat," she said, pushing them off from the sand. The tide caught them, swinging the bow toward open water.
The wind was fickle that night, and the stars hid behind fast-moving clouds. Mira kept the tiller steady, one eye on the dark shape sprawled at her feet.
A name, she thought. If he wakes, first thing I'm asking is his name. Second is what he's worth.
But he didn't wake.
Instead, as she trimmed the sail, she found herself glancing toward him again and again. The way the moonlight caught on a strange light hue in his hair. The way his hand twitched sometimes, like it was remembering something his mind had let go.
Somewhere far off, a bell rang over the water—three slow tolls. Mira's skin prickled. Out here, bells meant ships… and ships meant either salvation or ruin.
She chose a course deeper into Ashport crooked paths, where reefs and shoals would gut any vessel too large to ride between them. Her skiff skimmed past rocks slick with barnacle teeth, into waters lit faintly from below.
Phosphorescent plankton swirled in their wake. In the green-blue glow, something vast moved just beneath the surface, pacing them. Mira pretended not to see it.
Only when the clouds broke and the stars spilled back did she let out the breath she'd been holding.
She glanced at the man again. He was breathing steadier now. Good. A man with debts was worth more alive.
"Welcome to Ashport, stranger," she murmured. "Hope you can cook, fight… or at least being of any value."
Mira guided the skiff between two leaning piers, the planks warped and grey, where the tide slapped against barnacle-crusted posts. The smell of roasting fish drifted from the shanties above, mingled with the sharper reek of rum gone sour.
She kept one hand on the tiller, the other close to her knife, eyes scanning for the right crew to spot her cargo. The right crew, in this case, meant the ones most willing to pay for a half-dead man with decent boots.
Solomon—though she still didn't know his name—lay in the bottom of the skiff, head turned toward the side, lips moving faintly. She leaned down just enough to catch the sound.
"…water."
His voice was a cracked whisper, barely there, but the word was clear enough. She ignored it. Giving him a drink now would make her feel attached to him. She hadn't chosen anything yet.
The dock ahead bristled with figures in mismatched coats, boots of every style, and weapons that looked as if they'd been pulled from a dozen different ships. Torren's green-and-black scarf showed on two of them. The rest were from other crews—some rivals, some allies, depending on who owed who money this week.
Her eyes settled on a man leaning against a piling, his broad hat pulled low, a coil of rope slung over one shoulder. His coat bore a torn patch: a silver serpent on his back. Not Torren's colors. Its her first she saw his face.
She slowed the skiff, letting it drift.
If she brought the castaway to Torren's lot, they might take him in… or slit both there throat. If she can sell him to this man who got a silver serpent, she might get pay—but he didn't look any whealth as the man she try to sell.
Solomon coughed, a weak sound, and her eyes flicked to him. He'd rolled slightly onto his side, his hand trembling as he tried to push himself up. He made it halfway before collapsing again, breathing hard.
She could almost hear the clink of gold in her head. Men who came off the sea like this sometimes fetched more than cargo—especially around these sea.
But then his eyes opened. Just a sliver, but enough. His crimson eyes glow were fading away, and for a moment they fixed on her like he knew exactly what she was thinking.
It made her uncomfortable.
She looked away, pushing the tiller to swing them toward a narrow alley of water between two rotting wharves. A quieter place. Fewer eyes.
A gull screamed overhead, wheeling toward the smell of fish guts, and she spat into the water. "Don't look at me like that," she muttered. "You're just a way for me to make money."
But cargo didn't breathe. Cargo didn't watch you when you weren't watching it.
The little channel led to the back of a gambling den—a slumped shack painted in peeling red. She knew the man who ran it, a pirate named Harlow with a taste for stray opportunities. He might give her coin and keep the man alive… at least long enough to find out his value.
She tied off the skiff and crouched beside the castaway. "You got a name?"
His lips moved. She leaned closer.
"…Solomon."