He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed the ocean life – the feel of the rough wooden deck beneath his feet; the snap of the canvas sail beating with the wind. Almost four years had passed since he’d sailed aboard the Alexandria, and it seemed like a lifetime ago. With all his training at the Niten Ichi Ryū, he was now more samurai than seaman. But his seafaring instincts were too deeply ingrained to be lost. His late father had seen to that. With a quick glance, Jack could tell the captain wasn’t sailing the ship on its optimum tack. The sail could be trimmed to get at least another knot of speed out of her. His eye remained sharp for navigational signs: the light blue hue of the water indicated where the seabed was relatively shallow and he could tell by the position of the sun they were headed in a south-westerly direction, following the coastline.

As he made these observations, his body gently swayed, unconsciously counterbalancing the rise and fall of the ship’s prow.

You can take the sailor from the sea, but you can never take the sea from the sailor.

His father had often jested with his mother about that every time he’d returned from a voyage. And it was never long before his father got the urge to set sail again. That very same impulse had drawn Jack to the ocean and his father’s trade as a ship’s pilot. The two years spent sailing from England to the Japans as a rigging monkey had been some of the happiest in his life. During the voyage, his father had taught him how to navigate by the stars, gauge the weather, plot a course and, most importantly, decipher the cryptic notes and observations in the rutter – the logbook having been encoded to prevent prying eyes from discovering its valuable secrets.

Gazing across the Seto Sea with its countless islands glimmering like jewels, Jack could almost sense the spirit of his father by his side. With a wistful sigh, he surrendered himself to the memories.

Many of the other passengers – a surprising mix of pilgrims, merchants, a couple of court nobles, a monk and several travellers – were also enjoying the view, each wrapped in their own thoughts.

A man got unsteadily to his feet and approached the bow. Jack caught sight of him out of the corner of his eye. Glimpsing the hilt of a samurai sword on his hip, he momentarily panicked. But the man was a little green with seasickness and had no interest in him. Unkempt, with a stubbly face and wayward hair, he was thickset and had battle scars across his arms. He wore a shabby brown kimono with no visible mon, the crest that would indicate his allegiance to a particular samurai lord. Without it, Jack guessed he was a ronin, a masterless samurai.