Baron Breton Stackpole stood on the pitching deck of the Otter, holding his cloak tight against the wet, winter wind, and cursed for the seventh time since noon today that he had made the voyage on Tridentâs Tears instead.
The Otter was a good ship with a deep draft and a mast tall enough to carry a mainsail and a topsail, both, and she was large enough to host his family and his knights so long as the voyage was short and they had little need of space for cargo. On almost any spring or summer day, the Otter would have made the voyage from Stackpole Isle to Blackwell Bay in half a day, even with stops at Kettle and Breaker isles to retrieve the knights who guarded the approach to Blackwell Bay.
But this wasnât spring or summer, and even rising before the dawn had barely given Baron Breton time to make the crossing, assuming the seas were fair and the clear weather held.
Heâd told himself more than once that he was doing his men a kindness by taking the Otter. A single-masted cog needed a crew of less than twenty, while the mighty Tridentâs Tears never sailed with less than fifty rowers to a side, and twice as many to give a voyage speed.
The summons Count Rhys sent told him to come and bring with him every other knight descended from the First Crew and all others he could swear to trust with his life, but the same summons made it clear that theyâd been summoned to council, not to war.
Thereâd been no reason to call up all his fighting men the way he would have to fight the pirate fleets, and besides, he thought as he scratched the rough beard that had turned more gray than brown, his days of charging across boarding planks with a sword in hand and fire in his eyes had ended long ago.
Unfortunately for Breton, the morning weather hadnât held, and a series of winter squalls had made it all but impossible to approach Breaker Isle from the east. Theyâd been forced to circle around to the isleâs southern shore and send a dinghy ashore for Sir Abel Crosse instead of collecting him from the docks of his own village.
With a hundred oars in the water to maneuver, the baronâs proudest dromon would never have been tossed aside so casually, but the Otter feared the sudden swells and shifting winds in a way the mighty warship wouldnât. Now, however, there was nothing to be done about it but make his apologies to his liege lord for his late arrival and hope that the count didnât start his council without him.
"Wonât be long now, my Lord," the master of the Otter called as the ship finally rounded the point of the harbor, revealing the glittering jewel of Blackwell City nestled up against the sheltered shore. "Half the beacons are out from the storm, my Lord, but thereâs plenty enough to steer by, and weâll have you ashore before the moon rises above the cliffs."
"Take your time and keep her steady, Master Till," Breton shouted back over the sound of the wind and the spray. "Being late is embarrassing, aye, but running into another lordâs ship is worse. Weâre tying up at Blackwell Manorâs dock under the eyes of the countâs own men. Letâs not let our shiphandling embarrass the Stackpole Isles."
"You heard the Baron," Master Till yelled at his crew. "Furl the topsail and bring her in slow, hands to the port side and ropes at the ready..."
Breton left the master and his crew to their work. He might be the Baron, but there could only be one captain of the ship, and at the moment, he was just a passenger. On the Tridentâs Tears, he might have commanded the approach himself, but on the Otter, it was best to let the shipâs own master do the work of it.
Besides, now that theyâd entered the harbor, Bretonâs eyes found plenty of other things to occupy his attention.
The harbor was full of ships, most with their sails furled tightly against the fierce winter weather. A few small boats were making their way across the harbor, but if it werenât for the lanterns hanging from their bows and masts, Breton would never have noticed them in the dark of night.
"Black sails," he muttered as he watched a small cutter with a single triangular sail pass astern of the Otter. "Black sails and a dark hull," he added as he watched the shimmer of lantern light playing across the surface of the water, utterly failing to illuminate the details of the small boatâs hull.
Most men would dismiss it as a curiosity, but Baron Breton wasnât most men. He was the Lord of the Stackpole Isles, and more importantly, he was the direct descendant of Baron Dolyn Stackpole. Or, as his ancestor had been known before his turn to respectability, Tightstrings Dolyn, the Purser of the Black Tide.
Bretonâs ancestor had been infamous for his ruthlessness when it came to protecting the crewâs share of profits, and in many years, there were few comforts to be had shipboard because of Dolynâs refusal to overindulge when the Black Tide found a run of good fortune. At the same time, Phylipâs crew never went hungry in a lean year because thereâd always been plenty of treasure stacked aside.
Those stories had been passed down from father to son for as long as the Stackpoles had served as the Blackwellâs vassals and even before they were given fancy titles to match their lands... And in the days of Tightstrings Dolyn, the captain he served hadnât been Count Phylip Blackwell... Heâd been Captain Phylip Blacksails, Lord of the Ebbing Tide.
Seeing one ship with black sails could have been a coincidence, but as they went deeper into the harbor, passing the whaling fleet and merchant ships that mounted multiple masts and two or even three sails per mast, Breton found more and more ships with black sails bound to their spars. Others seemed to have removed their sails entirely as if theyâd sent every yard of canvas out for repair at once... or were waiting to receive their own dark sails.
By the time they reached the docks reserved for the Countâs personal fleet and those with business at the manor, Bretonâs mild curiosity at the old-fashioned look had turned into genuine anxiety as he counted the number of black-sailed ships at the dock.
It wasnât just the number of ships that caught his eye, however, but the number of dromons that floated quietly in their berths, dressed for war like they were ready to set sail on the morning tide. They even had enough lanterns lit to reveal not only a nightâs watch of sailors aboard, but more than two dozen soldiers apiece...
Added to the rumors that had reached him just days ago of a blue flame burning on the Isle of the Drowned, no one needed to tell Breton that this summons was anything but ordinary.
The Blackwell Court had yet to assemble, and Count Rhys was already making a statement. This wouldnât be a time to bicker over wine in the way the landbound lords squabbled over everything. The captain of the ship had raised the flag, and heâd beaten the drums to summon his crew...
Now was a time to fall in line. The only question was where their captain was leading them to...