Part I - The Hook

Lord Zulito. Balthazar spat that name with disdain. For it was he that spun oh so intricate a web to sully his name and have him expelled from civilized lands, and sea. If he ever laid eyes upon that welp of a man again he would wring his neck until those hawkish orbs popped clean out of their sockets. His jaw clenched and his fists balled to red upon the thought.

But nay, he reeled back his thoughts of that man, to before he knew of his existence. There they were within a Tavern on the Kordova dockside that carried the name that sung true to their hearts, 'The Swash'n'Buckle'.

The sun had danced below the horizon and the moon was reaching high for the zenith of the night, his men were drowsy from strong drink and the pressing bosoms of their wenches. But he, their captain, remained sharp in his musings. He did drink heartily and he did partake in the pleasure of flesh, however this night he remained alert. An electrifying tension held in the air, the sort the barbarians of the north speak of before some unseen danger strikes. He scanned the tavern with narrowed eyes, wondering why he felt such way. There appeared to be no danger here, just the regular sea dogs and knaves, save one. She had been there all evening, in the corner occasionally glancing over to where he and his men sat, looking to start forward and begin verse but held still, maybe she was waiting till he was as enamoured with the drink as his men.

Not until the moon was closest to the heavens did that woman move. She swayed and floated towards him, at least that is what it seemed, like a she-panther but instead of one stalking through the sward she padded aloof with confidence. Her silken breeches held low on her hips accentuating her curvaceous female form. A low cropped blouse bound her heaving breast, with flowing black hair that fell in wavy locks about her shoulders contrasting with her smooth olive-toned skin.

She sat on a chair near him, perfume of exotic taste did waft, not too strong but just enough to tickle the senses, smelling faintly of yellow lotus.

"Why do you not share in merriment with your men?" she purred with a thick Zingaran accent.

His reply was stiff, for he was taken back by the confidence in which this woman proffered.

"I feel an air of danger this night," the woman raised an eyebrow, slender, sharp like a stroke of ink across her brow, "something is amiss and I would rather keep my wits sharp," he finished. "Wise indeed dear captain," she replied, "tell me has danger found you yet?"

This woman was enchanting, he was hard-pressed to keep his composure. He, Balthazar the steel blooded Zingaran captain felt like he was being pulled into the sway of a Stygian serpent. He should have heeded the signs, but alas, this woman he had to experience.

"Maybe," he smirked, "It may now sit with me."

Her lips curled into a sweet smile. He almost forgot where they were. The once rowdy and boisterous tavern seemed to distance and mute itself, as if the Yellow Lotus of her perfume was strong enough to take him away on a cloud, although he knew it was not. It was his weakness as a man that led him astray.

"Whom do you take me for good captain," she exclaimed with mock wound then paused and continued, "I will just out with it then, I am in need, and in peril, I have heard your name spoken on the lips of many tavern goers and sailors up and down these docks, you are capable and have a smoldering determination that many do tell, and that I can now see."

He had felt a slight pull of heart, what magic was this. He composed himself, regaining his nerves and alertness.

"If I was a betting man, there is something untoward here," he observed, "You saunter over here with your purring voice, your alluring looks, in hopes I will follow you to some vagabond sprung alley to be robbed of all but my breeches?"

She balked as her eyes widened. He doubted this was such a ruse however he wanted to gauge her reaction, he was still enamoured, but his senses were now tingling with anticipation of a hidden agenda.

"I apologise Captain, I know not what to do!" She exclaimed in a hurried tone, as if he would brush her away and hear no more of her requests, "will you hear my plea? I am in a terrible predicament."

Looking back now, it was plain that this woman was a master of her craft, for she pulled at his sensibilities and presented him with a call to honor that he could not refuse.

He put his hand on her shoulder and said, "Tell me, what troubles you so," and in that moment, if his insight had been tied to a roll of dice, like his men played so often, he would have lost that game with the worst possible roll.

---

The next day, upon a strong western wind did the Midnight Runner sail. She was a Zingaran-hulled brigantine, commissioned to his own specifications, black treated sails, Argossean rigging, built for sailing like he fought, nimble, opportunistic and honorable to a fault.

He stood at the helm, hand on the wheel, his ruffled shirt partly open, long coat heavy with braid billowing in the warm breeze, breeches slack and rapier hung through its loop. As he looked down across the deck he saw her, Vespara de Montaraz, the lass he had met in the Tavern the night before. She wanted refuge, she was being harried and chased by household swords of her own family. She claimed to have greatly insulted her betrothed at a public function, reduced him to nothing in front of witnesses who mattered, the marriage was arranged of course, she wanted no part in it. Such acts require specific action, the family she was bade to wed into was of higher status and demanded punishment, such is the way in Zingaran society.

His ship cut through the surf at a good pace, like a snake slithering through sand, the sea broke against the hull with slickness, the sun high in the sky beat down but was tempered by the cooling wind. His crew were suspicious, rarely did they take a woman onto this ship. He could see it in their narrowing eyes. They remained silent out of respect for him no doubt, but they knew. They were not as enchanted as he, it seemed.

He noticed his first mate ascend the helm steps.

"Aye cap'n" Diego hailed, "the wind is strong this day, we make good speed."

He wore a red bandana that covered his bald head, tied at the back, a simple shirt with bicep tie, leather breeches and a scimitar hung by his side. Diego had been with the crew for nearly ten years. Balthazar trusted all his crew, he would not tolerate anything less, but Diego had been here the longest, a good man, a good eye, and a good heart.

"Indeed, dear Diego," Balthazar smirked, "however you didn't come up here to talk about the weather eh?"

He let him bristle for a moment. He knew him well enough to know that Diego does not come to helm during sail for small talk. He already knew where this conversation would go.

"We trust you cap, that is never in doubt, but this new..." Diego admitted his stance, with seeming trepidation.

"I know what you are all to think," Balthazar interrupted him mid sentence, "your suspicion is well founded, I'll grant you that, you are quite right to question her presence, but she is here under my purview, if there is a misstep, do know that she will be cast off at the next stop, civilization or not."

Diego seemed to accept this. What choice did he have. He, like the rest of the crew, placed their complete trust in Balthazar as their captain. He had never done them wrong, and thus so had only ever served to be a shining beacon of what an honorable man of justice should be, and that is why in the end it cut deep into his heart, the outcome that came to pass.

Vespara, standing on the side rail with hand on rigging, let the wind whip and curl her hair and silken shirt. She too had a rapier through a loop in her belt, her signature leather breeches and boots that came up just below the knee. She cut a fine figure against the horizon. She jumped down from her perch, and strode past the glaring men towards him and Diego at the helm.

"The air is so fresh on the sea, is it not?" She grinned at Balthazar as Diego hurried back down to command the men, "it's a certain change from the stuffy air of Kordova!"

If her attempts to disarm him were a blade, he would have died of that wound there and then. She imparted in him an energy he thought he had lost when he took his first life.

"There is nothing quite like the sea," he replied stoically, "The fresh salted air of course, but also the isolation, the possibilities, out here we are the masters of our reality."

"It's a stark contrast to life on the land," she looked up to the sky in retrospection, "always under another's boot, always beholden to some rule or custom."

It amazed him that this woman seemed so comfortable on this ship, around these hardy sailors, but had come from such a situation. Amazed, but also concerned him. There was something she was not telling him. He resolved to find out.

"We should be free to choose our own path," he stroked the stubble on his chin as he spotted a landmass on the horizon, "look over there, our destination, this night we stay there."

Vespara beamed at him and nodded, "Captain!"