It was a week’s work to get the fat brig repaired and disguised—ready for sale, not for Vice’s captaincy. But at least she’d managed to persuade FitzRoy to split the proceeds with the men and women who’d been enslaved.

Up in the shrouds, her sigh mingled with the breeze as they pulled into Port Royal’s harbour, skirting as far from Fort Boudicca’s guns as possible. She’d helped trim the sails to bring them in slowly and prepare for anchor. Now she wrapped one arm around a line and leant out, fingers reaching for the wide sky.

Beyond the ships docked at numerous wharves, the city rose. Stone, brick, and timber buildings housed taverns, brothels, craftsfolk, tradesmen, warehouses, workshops, cooperages, and the homes of rich and poor alike. As its three forts and barracks suggested, the city was a stronghold for the Albionic Navy. Perry said this had once been a pirate haven like Nassau, but now Port Royal had, for the most part, gone legit.

As they drew closer, the bustle of voices and work joined the constant shush of the sea. The shrill cries of parrots pierced the air as they flew between palm trees and nests tucked into the stonework of waterfront towers. Distant music drifted from somewhere—most likely one of the many taverns.

Legit didn’t necessarily mean boring.

Maybe she’d get some time on shore leave for a spot of fun.

That was assuming their disguise as The Three rather than The Morrigan held long enough to let them stay …

Eyes narrow, she scanned the ships already here, watching for old enemies to avoid or potential targets they might follow out when they left.

The slaver brig bobbed behind, its fat hull just as slow and stiff as she’d expected. She almost felt sorry for Bricus running it. The first mate had a contingent from The Morrigan plus the former slaves, so plenty of hands, but the thing looked uncontrollable.

Much as she hated to admit it, FitzRoy was right—it was no pirate vessel. He’d promised they’d take a fast, sleek creature for her to captain. Something fine and low profiled with—

“Ooh.” The sound breathed out of her.

A small ship sat in dock. She was three masted and shaped like a frigate with raised decks to fore and aft, but at only ninety feet long she was far smaller than any frigate Vice had seen. She wasn’t much bigger than a schooner, and a touch shorter than The Morrigan.

At that size and fully rigged with such a sleek hull, she’d be fast. Eleven knots, maybe more? And that was without any help from Vice’s gift driving the current onward. What was this beauty’s name?

She leant further into the wind, lifting her spyglass, just one foot and one hand keeping her tethered to the shrouds.

On the hull painted in gold, Venatrix. Huntress.