So if you were a Blacksuit and knew how to swim (which Cat did, because, dammit, instinctive hatred for an activity was just the world’s way of challenging you to master it), you sometimes ended up doing things like this: swimming un-Suited, read weak, read human, leading a team toward an anchored ship after dark, with—how deep was the water here, a few hundred feet?—anyway too much water underneath you, and Lord Kos alone knew what monsters below, star kraken and bloodwhales and saltwater crocs. She surfaced, gulping air.

The ship’s swelling sides blocked out the stars. Moonlight glinted off the black paint that named her Demon’s Dream. Cat turned onto her back to watch the bowsprit figure pass overhead: crystal carved into a woman’s shape. The rest of Cat’s team followed her, dark V’s against dark water.

The ship rocked as she slipped along its starboard side. Waves lapped barnacled boards. Anchor chain links rasped. She stopped near the chain, touched the wet hull, and triggered her climbing bracelets. Her hands burned as if she’d rubbed them hard against rubber, and when she touched the hull, her fingers stuck. She pulled herself out of the water and triggered her anklets; her toes clung to slick planks. Her team followed, smooth and slow. Their wetsuits wept themselves dry as they climbed.

Strange to feel safer clinging by magic to a pirate ship’s hull than swimming out of sight beneath.

She paused below the railing, counted footfalls, and timed the operation.

Ten sailors on deck, two more than Raz expected. Varg’s delay might well make her XO paranoid. Others would be asleep, many on deck on such a warm night. Good thing Raz’s team had done this before.

She heard creaking sheets an instant before the watch called: “Sail approaching off the port bow!” Raz ran dark, not invisible.

Boots drumrolled on deck: eight pairs, she thought, approached the port rail. Even the two that remained starboard turned to watch. Sergeant Lee, beside her, pointed up. She shook her head and waited for the signal.

“Kel’s Bounty,” came Raz’s voice, very near. “Raz Pelham here, bearing a message from Captain Varg.”

“She’s late.”

“Problems landward. I have a letter from her, sealed. Permission to come aboard?”

“Why run up on us dark like that?”

“You want the coast guard to see us both? Then I’ll light my lanterns.”

“Send the letter over.”

Come on, she thought, give the cue. You’ve made your distraction; we can take it from here.

“Varg told me to deliver it in person.”

“She have anything else to say?”

“Just that.”

“You won’t set foot on this ship. Send the message over, if message you have.”

“Get your first mate down here so I can talk this out with him.”