The Black Turtle is an ugly wedge of wood that doesn’t appear to bob atop the water as much as it appears to be sinking with imperceptible sloth. The sails are the color of mud and the rust sheen over its anchor chains are like a muted rainbow. The masthead is a turtle carved from solid blackwood that appears to be diving from the vessel’s bow, its stubby limbs spread as wide as their limited reach will allow. A pattern of stars is painted on its belly, an entire constellation that itself forms the vague shape of a turtle.

At the top of the gangplank Taru spies a boatswain calling out orders to the deck crew. The man is stumpy and ugly and he’s made even uglier by sucking the juice from a piece of dragonfruit.

“Permission to come aboard!” Taru calls up the gangplank.

The boatswain turns and stares down at the retainer, tossing the deflated piece of fruit into the bay. He squints against the sun, scrutinizing Taru closely for long moments before answering.

“You one of them Undeclared?”

Taru draws in a deep, calming breath and exhales. “I am.”

“Never seen one of you up close before.”

“I hope you are sufficiently impressed.”

The boatswain shrugs. “I’ve stuck it in plenty of worse lookin’ women. Men, too.”

Taru white-knuckles the tsuka of the short sword sheathed at their hip, teeth grinding murderously.

“May I come aboard?”

“Crachians ain’t allowed on Rok vessels unless they’re conducting state business.”

“I’m a member of Gen Stalbraid here in an official capacity.”

The boatswain licks the excess juice from his lips, seeming to ponder those words.

“Yeah, okay, why not. Come on up.”

Taru carefully stalks up the flimsy gangplank, the boatswain magnanimously stepping aside and bowing to the retainer with a smile on his face. Taru notices both his upper and lower teeth have been filed perfectly flat and straight.

“I need to speak with your captain.”

“I kinda expected you’d say that.”

The deck is filled with salty hands, all whom are at least two heads shorter than Taru. The retainer is unfamiliar with the island of Rok or its people. Like the boatswain, every set of teeth Taru can see has been filed down.

The man leads them across the deck to a shaded arch, under which a small puffy figure is reclining.

“Captain, you have a guest. Here on official business, they say.”