Of Sea and Shadow

Isla raced down the cobbled street, dodging between patrons and weaving around stalls.

A man raised an arm to point at something he wished to buy, and she ducked beneath it, slipping between him and the vendor without so much as brushing either of them, ignoring their exclamations of surprise.

Behind her, the heavy tread of several pairs of boots grew louder—men shoving others out of their way, ignoring the indignant shouts. One of her pursuers stumbled over the crate she’d pulled into their path; she heard it shatter and his curses as he kicked through the remains.

She grinned. How long ago had she done that? Forty seconds, maybe. They were too close.

It was only one small purse. She hadn’t expected them to take it so seriously. Or to notice so soon.

Ahead lay the harbor, the smell of fish and salt growing stronger with every step. But that wasn’t her destination—too many men around, too open.

The alleyway she needed was coming up in another fifty yards. It linked to the backstreets, a labyrinth of twists and turns behind houses and shops where she could easily lose her pursuers.

She skimmed past a man buying from a baker, both the purse on his belt and the pastries on the stall such easy prey. For a heartbeat, her fingers twitched, her feet slowed. But this wasn’t the time to add more grief; she could return later, when she wasn’t being hunted.

The alleyway was almost in sight, nestled between the clothier and candlemaker—narrow, dirty, and easy to miss. Perfect for her. She swerved around the clothing stall, so close the sleeve of her shirt skimmed its pole…only to see a cart blocking her way.

She skidded into the first horse, bouncing off the wagon’s tongue and hitting the second horse with her shoulder. It shied, its eyes rolling behind its blinkers.

“Hey!” shouted the clothier.

“What the hell are you doing, boy?” the man on top of the wagon called out, bending in the process of unloading a crate. He straightened, glaring at her.

“What the hell am I doing?” Isla yelled back. “You’re the jackass blocking the street!”

The cart was as wide as the alleyway, leaving no way past. The owner had his hands on his hips as he stared down at her, and she knew he’d grab her if she tried to go over. The skittering horses made going under impossible.

Gods dammit.

Her pursuers would be here in seconds. She needed to vanish, and fast.

The harbor was her only option. It was more open than she liked, but there’d be places to hide.

She darted off, glancing up the street as she passed the candlemaker’s stall. One of her pursuers spotted her, a stout man with closely cropped hair.

“Stop that thief!”

Fantastic. Now everyone was a threat. Stupid, Isla, stupid. Never~ look back.~

A hand swiped at her; she barely dodged, twisting away and sprinting faster. Now, she needed to outrun not just the men, but their shouting too.

“Thief!”

“Stop that boy!”

Isla snagged another crate in her path, this one pulled from a stack by a greengrocer, spilling cabbages that rolled and bounced across the street. More angry shouts followed her.

She wasn’t popular today.

But it bought her time to dash across the open ground of the harbor, desperately searching for a hiding spot.

Two soldiers chatted a few yards to her right. She veered left. Ahead, sailors loaded cargo, presenting another risk. She ducked behind a pile of boxes, wormed her way between a stack of crates, and dropped to a crouch. It might buy her a minute to catch her breath—if no one had seen.

The heavy tread of several pairs of boots stopped concerningly close.

“He’s gone to ground around here somewhere.”

That was the voice of the man with the beard whose purse she still clutched tightly. Damn, and he’d looked like he could afford the coins too.

He spoke like a noble—even if he didn’t look like one—and rich men were usually far less inclined to chase. Yet he’d been surprisingly determined. And surprisingly fast.

More worrying was his conviction that she’d hidden and not run down the wharf and doubled back.

Dammit, I should’ve run down the wharf and double back.

Isla squeezed into a crate with a loose tarpaulin and lay on the bed of lemons. She pulled the canvas tightly over herself. It wouldn’t stand up to a rigorous search, but if she stayed hidden for long enough, maybe they’d think they were mistaken, and the search would move elsewhere.

“Let’s leave it, Henrik,” a new voice said, gruff and exasperated. “He led us on a merry chase, but it’s only a few coins.”

Exactly! Listen to him, Henrik.

“It wasn’t my coin pouch.”

Fuck. If she didn’t have his coin pouch, what did she have? All this trouble, and it wasn’t even money? But he’d chased her half across the town. Maybe it was something more valuable.

She felt the pouch through the soft leather, squeezing to gauge its contents. Dammit, he wasn’t lying. It didn’t feel like coins. Something hard within; perhaps a jewel?

It was too dark to clearly see with the tarpaulin pulled over her, but she didn’t want to risk lifting the edge for more light. If it was a jewel, it was big enough to be worth a lot—and be reason enough for their persistence.

She pulled away her shirt and tucked the pouch beneath her breast bindings—the tight cloth straps would keep it secure. There was no way she was going through all this trouble only to lose it by accident if she had to flee again. Or swim, for that matter.

Their conversation had become a murmur. She could hear them talking, but not what was said. Then a louder call came. “Dirk, get these crates loaded.” Henrik’s voice again.

“Cap’n? Those?”

“That’s what I said.”

“They’re not ours.” A quieter response.

“I don’t care. Get them loaded, and the rest of the men aboard. Change of plan: we leave within the hour.”

“Aye, Cap’n.”

Isla chuckled softly to herself. This Captain Henrik was quite a character. He was chasing her for stealing from him, but was ready to help himself to others’ crates. Well, whatever. All she needed to do was wait until they loaded up and left, and then she could sell her jewel.

Sailors came closer, their feet thudding around her as crates were dragged and knocked. Isla froze, gripping the loose corner of the tarpaulin to keep it from shifting and giving her away.

Then the crate she was in was lifted, and she was being carried.

Oh, shit.

Could she leap out? No, not without being grabbed. She was being carried along the dock. If they trapped her, the only option would be to jump over the side, into the water. Not a great plan surrounded by sailors. They wouldn’t all be able to swim, but enough would—and likely better than her.

She would have to bide her time.

The crate teetered at an angle, and Isla rolled with the lemons, sliding against the side with a soft thump. Maybe the men carrying her didn’t notice, for there was no outcry. Yet it could only mean she was being taken up a gangplank and onto a ship.

This day was getting worse and worse.

Keep your wits, Isla. Wait until the ship sets sail, then ~sneak out and over the side before the ship leaves the harbor~.

It was a terrible plan, but the only one she had. At least once the ship was on its way, it wouldn’t stop. If she could make it to the rail without being caught, she’d escape.

They carried her on board but didn’t set her down immediately. Instead, her crate was carefully lowered, and what little light had come through the tarpaulin faded to shadow.

Shit. I’m being put in the hold.

But what chance had she to escape? Maybe she could still sneak away once they finished loading. They likely wouldn’t guard the hold closely.

Her crate was set down with a scrape and a jerk. Isla lay quietly, listening to the men’s voices and footsteps as they loaded the ship.

At least another crate hadn’t been put on top of hers…yet. Hell, if that happened, she’d have no choice but to call for help. Either that or stay hidden until the ship made port wherever it was going…which would be weeks.

A lengthy time to wait with only lemons and a stolen jewel for sustenance.

Scurvy-free, at least.

There came the clamor of feet on the deck above, more men’s voices shouting, and the ship began to move. They were leaving.

It was now or never.

Isla carefully lifted the corner of the tarpaulin, revealing a dark storeroom in the hold, just as she’d expected. She climbed out, slipping over the edge of the crate and lightly down to the floor into a crouch. All she had to do now—

A hand gripped the scruff of her neck. “Ye reckon we didn’t have a bleedin’ clue which crate ye were hidin’ in, eh?”

Fuck. Isla squirmed, trying to slip away, but his grip was unbreakable, his strength far greater than hers. She reached for her knife. She didn’t want to do it, but what choice was left?

The hand of her captor closed on her wrist, squeezing until she cried out. Her fingers opened, and the blade fell to the floor, landing point down in the wood with a dull thunk. “I dun feel like gettin’ stabbed today, lad.”

He dragged her out of the hold, one hand still on her neck, the other twisting her arm painfully behind her back. He pushed her up the stairs to the deck, his grip never easing.

The ship was still in the harbor, heading toward the breakwater, leaving the wharf and her only chance for safety far behind.

She swallowed hard. What options were left? Only one. If she could slip his hold, she could dive over the side. It would be too late once they reached the open sea. She couldn’t swim through waves that strong.

She twisted hard, lashing his instep with one foot. He cursed with the pain of it, and his hand slipped from her neck, but he didn’t let go of her wrist. Isla cried out as he forced it roughly up, pushing down on her shoulder, giving her no choice but to bend.

“Give over,” he grunted. “Ye’re caught. Face yer punishment like a man.”

Yet Isla’s woolen hat was slipping, dislodged from their brief tussle. She made a grab for it, but he was quicker, pulling it away. Her blonde plait fell free, bouncing against her back.

“Wha’ have we ’ere?” He sounded amused, holding the hat out of reach. “Nary a lad after all, eh?”

Fuck. She straightened as best she could with her wrist still painfully raised and gave him a glare. It was all she could do.

“Put her in my cabin,” came a voice from the quarterdeck. It was the cultured voice she’d heard on the docks, and at the card table where she’d swiped his pouch. A decision that was fast proving to be the worst mistake of her life.

“Dirk, find a guard for the door.”

Isla glanced over her shoulder to see the speaker. Captain Henrik, as she now knew. He stood watching her with folded arms, and his expression was one not of anger but amusement.

He was laughing at her, dammit. The man whose pouch was hidden beneath her breast bindings, and on whose ship she was now a prisoner. She didn’t believe in coincidences; she did believe in karma. This wouldn’t end well.

“Aye, Cap’n.” The man who held her leered at her. “Welcome aboard the Black Serpent, lass.”

There was nothing she could do. He manhandled her to the cabin in the aftercastle, beneath the quarterdeck, opened the door, and shoved her through.

She stumbled and fell, landing on a thick rug, only her pride wounded. He gave her a grin and slammed the door behind him.

No dagger, no way of escaping, nowhere to escape to.

Fuck.