Marina Corsair watched her own ship shrink to a white speck on the water. A day ago it was hers. She had been drinking on this shore, celebrating a deal she thought was good news, when the man she knew took her ship and sailed off. Her crew scattered. Some ran. Some climbed aboard with him. She did not blame them. She only knew she had to follow, take back what was hers, and learn why he wanted it. But she stood on the sand with no vessel, and every hour he sailed further beyond her reach. She ran to the dock. A skinny man in fine clothes stood counting coins into a purse on his belt. He owned this dock and the rest stop behind it. Marina knew his kind. This was the only harbor for a hundred miles, and he charged whatever he pleased. "I need a boat," she said. "Now. Fast one." Cornelius Weatherby-Fitzwilliam did not look up. "Everyone needs a boat. Few can pay." He named a price. It was triple what any boat was worth. Marina turned out her pockets. Three coins fell into her palm. He glanced at them and smiled thin. "Then you'll be walking, Captain." She wanted to draw her sword. Instead she walked to the far end of the dock, where a broken skiff sat rotting. Its hull was cracked. Two holes gaped near the waterline. Rope hung green with rot. But it floated. Barely. "That wreck," she called back. "How much?" He laughed. "That thing? It's not for sale. It's not even mine to sell. Belongs to the old man at the trading post. Take it up with him." Marina crossed the sand to a rundown store with peeling boards. A greying man with dark skin and old scars stood behind the counter. He watched her come with hard eyes. "I know that skiff," she said. "I know it barely floats. But I need it. My ship was stolen. He's getting away." Silas Crane said nothing for a long moment. He looked at her scar, her captain's hat, her empty hands. "You were a pirate," she said. "I can see it on you." "Was." He spat the word. "Long ago. Nobody worth remembering." His jaw worked. "That boat will kill you before it catches anyone." "Then I die chasing him." He stared at her. Then he reached under the counter and pulled out a fistful of nails and a scrap of pitch. He shoved them across the wood. "Take it," he grunted. "No charge. And if anyone asks, I sold it to you for gold." Marina blinked. "Why?" "Because I hate slow questions." He turned his back. "Go. Patch the holes yourself. I've done enough." She carried the nails to the skiff. By dusk she had it patched and floating true. She pushed off from the sand and pointed the bow at the horizon where her ship had vanished. The chase had begun.