Captain Whisker Blackpaw crouched on the wet dock and sniffed a coil of rope. The catnip smell was fading. Someone had stolen his whole cargo of rare Moroccan catnip two nights back, and now the trail was going cold. He meant to catch the thief, take back his bales, and drown the wretch in the deep water. But the sea kept no footprints. Every hour he lost the scent grew weaker, and the port grew louder with fresh gossip. A red-scarfed cat stumbled out of the provisions outpost, arms full of dried fish. Blackpaw knew the face. Buccaneer Bob sailed on Black Tom's crew, and he could never keep a secret when his purse was empty. Blackpaw stepped into his path. "Bob," he said. "Your captain's been mighty calm lately. Folks say he lies about grinning like a kitten in cream." Bob's ears flattened. He tried to slide past. "I don't know nothing, Captain." Blackpaw pressed a gold coin against the fish basket. Bob's eyes followed it. "One question," Blackpaw said. "Where's Black Tom hiding what he took?" Bob licked his lips. He glanced left, then right. "Tom's not on his ship," he whispered. "He's ashore. There's a hatch under the palm fronds, past the far end of the beach. He goes there every night and comes back purring." He snatched the coin and ran. Blackpaw followed the shoreline until the crowds thinned. Under a loose heap of palm leaves he found a wooden cellar hatch. He pushed the fronds aside and lifted the door. Cool air rose up, thick with the sweet green smell he'd been chasing. His whiskers twitched. His catnip. He climbed down. Bales sat stacked in the dark, canvas wrapped, each marked in ink. He recognized his own crooked handwriting on the labels. He pressed a paw to the nearest bundle and let out a slow breath. He had found it. Then a match flared behind him. Black Tom sat on a barrel in the corner, yellow eyes bright, sword across his knees. He had been waiting the whole time. He smiled the lazy smile the whole port had gossiped about. "You're slower than I hoped, Blackpaw," Tom said. "Bob sold you the door. I paid him to." Blackpaw drew his blade. But Tom only laughed and knocked over the lantern. Flame caught the dry catnip at once. Fire raced up the bales in a green rush of smoke. Heat slammed the cellar. Tom bolted up the ladder and slammed the hatch shut above them. Blackpaw heard a heavy bar drop into place. Smoke filled the little room fast. The cargo he'd hunted for two days was burning around him. The thief was gone, laughing, and the only way out was locked. Blackpaw pressed his back to the ladder and sucked one last clear breath. He had found his catnip. Now he had to escape it.

Smoke choked the cellar. Blackpaw dropped to the floor where the air still held. Flames climbed the canvas bales, and his catnip curled to ash in front of him. He had chased this cargo for two days. Now it was cooking to nothing, and Black Tom's laugh still hung above the barred hatch. Blackpaw had one thought left: smother the fire before it took the last of his prize. He grabbed the empty canvas from a burst bale and beat the flames. Sparks bit his paws. The fire spread faster than he could slap it down. Coughing, he kicked over a barrel in the corner. Water sloshed across the floor. Tom had left it for his own comfort, and now Blackpaw hurled it in swings against the burning stack. Steam hissed up thick and blinding. He threw the wet canvas over the worst of it and pressed down with his whole weight. The roar died to a smolder. Blackpaw lay panting in the black muck. Half the bales were gone. But four bundles at the bottom still held, damp and singed and whole. His cargo. He'd saved enough to matter. A thump sounded above. The bar scraped. The hatch cracked open, and grey daylight fell across the ruined bales. Blackpaw drew his blade, ready for Tom's grinning face. Instead a red head scarf poked through. Buccaneer Bob peered down, eyes wide at the smoke pouring out. Blackpaw's fur bristled. This was the traitor who'd sold him the door for a gold coin, then watched Tom lock it shut. "You," Blackpaw growled. "Come to see if I burned?" Bob flinched but didn't run. "Tom stiffed me," he said quick. "Paid me half of what he promised. Then he called me a fool in front of the whole crew." He spat. "I don't work for a captain who cheats his own men." "So you crawl to me." Blackpaw climbed the ladder, sword still out. "Give me one reason." Bob's ears pinned back. "Because I know where Tom sailed. And I want him drowned as bad as you do now." He glanced at the surviving bales below. "You saved some. Good. He thinks it's all ash. He thinks you're dead." Blackpaw hauled himself onto the sand and breathed clean air at last. Bob was shady, greedy, not to be trusted. But a spiteful man made a useful one. "Where," Blackpaw said. Bob pointed past the palms toward the water. Fresh catnip sprigs lay scattered in a loose green trail across the sand, dropped from a leaking bale. Beside them ran a line of black paw prints heading to the shore. Tom's own tracks. "He took the rest of his stash to sell," Bob said. "Follow the leaves. They'll lead you straight to his boat." Blackpaw sheathed his blade and stood. His enemy thought him ashes. That mistake would cost Tom everything. He looked down the trail and started walking.