The nights in Tortuga offered no reprieve from the heat, only a change in the color of the chaos.
Hugo shouldered his way out of the Mermaid's Rest, the cool, salt-laden night air hitting his face like a splash of cold water. It cleared the fog of rum from his mind, leaving him with a sharp, singular focus. He didn't linger to watch the revelry. He quickened his pace, his boots splashing through the stagnant puddles of the main thoroughfare as he headed toward the eastern docks.
The streets were even more treacherous than they had been during the day. At a nearby corner, under the flickering light of a dying whale-oil lamp, two groups of pirates had drawn their steel. They were hacking at one another with a mindless, drunken ferocity over the ownership of a red-haired tavern girl, who sat on a nearby crate, cheering for whichever side seemed to be winning. A crowd had gathered, whistling and shouting insults, but no one moved to stop the bleeding.
This was Tortuga's only true law: the rule of the jungle. Strength was the only currency that didn't depreciate. Hugo clutched the heavy pouch of doubloons against his ribs and moved through the shadows, his hand resting on the hilt of the cutlass Barbossa had gifted him. In this town, a man's life was worth exactly as much as the steel he carried.
Following Gibbs's directions, he found the Port Authority building at the far end of the wharf. It was a two-story structure of stone and weathered timber, marginally more respectable than the sagging shacks surrounding it. A rusted anchor sign swung over the entrance, and two guards leaned against the doorframe, cradling heavy flintlock muskets with the casual indifference of men who hadn't seen a real threat in weeks.
Hugo stepped forward, but before he could reach the door, a musket moved, the barrel blocking his path.
"State your business, lad," the guard grunted, his eyes half-closed in a sleepy haze.
"I'm here to see the official in charge of the ship auctions," Hugo said, keeping his voice steady and professional.
The other guard let out a harsh, dry cackle. "Auctions? At this hour? The masters are long gone to their beds or their bottles, boy. Come back when the sun's up."
Hugo knew that waiting until tomorrow was a gamble he couldn't afford. If word got out that a "nautical genius" was looking for a hull, the price would triple before dawn. He reached into his pouch, pulled out two silver pieces, and let them catch the moonlight before dropping them into the first guard's open palm.
The metal clinked. The guard's eyes snapped open, his posture instantly straightening. He squeezed the coins, a predatory smile spreading across his face. "Well now... I suppose Mr. Clark might still be finishing his ledgers. Sensible lad, you are."
He retracted the musket and jerked a thumb toward the door. "Second room on the right. Try not to startle him; he's got a temper like a gouty admiral."
Hugo thanked him and pushed inside. The interior of the building smelled of old parchment, damp wood, and the stale smoke of cheap tallow candles. He found the door marked Clerk Clark and gave it a sharp, three-point knock.
"Enter!" a shrill, irritated voice called out.
Hugo stepped inside to find a man who looked like he had been constructed out of bamboo and dried leather. Clark was hunched over a scarred mahogany desk, meticulously weighing a gold coin on a tiny brass scale. He wore an ill-fitting waistcoat of faded silk and had his hair slicked back with enough pomade to grease a galley's oars.
"What is it?" Clark asked, not bothering to look up from his scales. "If you're here to report a stolen dinghy, talk to the watch."
"I'm here to inquire about the impounded vessels at Berth Three," Hugo said, stepping into the light. "I heard there were prizes available for private purchase."
Clark finally looked up, his small, beady eyes scanning Hugo with immediate contempt. To him, Hugo looked like a castaway with ideas above his station. "Prizes? You mean the scrap heaps the Navy didn't bother to burn? Do you have any idea what a ship costs, boy? Or did you think you could buy a frigate for a handful of copper?"
"I'm looking for the 'unluckies,'" Hugo replied, ignoring the insult. "The ships no one else wants."
Clark's lip curled. He pulled a yellowed piece of parchment from a chaotic pile of documents and shoved it across the desk. "See for yourself. The cheapest thing in the yard is the Sea Fairy. She was a merchant sloop caught in a crossfire between the Spanish and the Royal Navy. Three chain-shots through the port hull, a broken mainmast, and enough rot in her seams to host a banquet for the worms."
He tapped a bony finger on the price listed at the bottom. "Fifty gold doubloons. Firm. Not a copper less."
Fifty. Hugo felt a cold knot form in his stomach. He had nineteen left.
"Can I inspect her?" Hugo asked.
"Inspect her?" Clark snorted, extending a greedy, ink-stained hand. "Inspections cost a viewing fee. One gold doubloon. Consider it a tax on my time."
Hugo gritted his teeth. It was a blatant shakedown, more efficient than any pirate's robbery because it was backed by a desk. He pulled a doubloon from his pouch and placed it on the table. Clark snatched it up, bit it, and then tossed a heavy iron key to Hugo.
"Berth Three. Northern end of the docks. Try not to drown; the Port Authority isn't liable for accidents on condemned property."
Hugo left the building, the loss of the coin stinging more than any physical blow. Every doubloon was a drop of his life's blood in this world.
He found Berth Three at the edge of the harbor, a desolate graveyard where the tide brought in the refuse of the Caribbean. Several skeletal hulls sat in the dark water, their ribs exposed like the carcasses of great whales.
The Sea Fairy was the worst of them.
She was a single-masted sloop, currently tilted at a sickening fifteen-degree angle to the port side. Seawater had poured through three jagged, splintered holes in her side, flooding her hold halfway. The mainmast had snapped ten feet above the deck, lying across the rail like a fractured limb, its rigging a tangled web of rotting hemp.
To anyone else, she was firewood. But as Hugo stepped onto her slippery, barnacle-encrusted deck, the "Basic Seamanship" skill flared to life. He knelt, pressing his ear to the timber, then climbed down into the lightless, foul-smelling bilge. He waded through waist-deep, oily water, his hands searching the darkness until they found the central timber.
The keel.
He ran his fingers along the massive beam of tropical hardwood. It was scarred, yes. It was soaked in stagnant brine. But it was straight. It wasn't cracked. The spine of the ship was still intact.
[System Scan: Analysis of Vessel "Sea Fairy"]
[Status: Structurally compromised (68% damage).]
[Resonance Potential: High. The keel is carved from Heart-Oak.]
[Integration Requirement: Ownership must be finalized to initiate "Ancient Reconstruction."]
Hugo stood up, his heart pounding against his ribs. The Sea Fairy wasn't a dead ship. She was a sleeping titan. With the technology tree, he could turn this rotting skeleton into a phantom that could outrun anything with sails.
But he was thirty-one doubloons short.
He jumped off the ship, the mud of the docks squelching under his boots. He had the vision, and he had the vessel. Now, he needed a way to bridge the gap between nineteen gold coins and the birth of his empire.
He looked back at the lights of the Mermaid's Rest. Barbossa was a clever man, and a greedy one. It was time to see if the Captain was willing to bet on a ghost.