The Cost of Spanish Gold

The stench of salt brine and horse dung hangs thick over the Bristol quay. Through the drifting fog, lantern light catches the polished brass buttons of Lieutenant Sterling’s red coat. He stands rigid on the wet cobblestones, the deep saber scar across his left cheek stark in the lamp flare, overseeing two marines as they shove Mary toward an iron-barred cart. Her soiled grey shift is damp with river mist, her dark hair plastered to her temple where a pale circular scar marks her skin. As the cart gate groans shut, her eyes sweep the shadows, searching for you. "She belongs to the magistrates now, Captain," Quartermaster Vance grunts from the darkness behind you. His coarse grey beard brushes your shoulder, his heavy hand missing its trigger finger as he claws at your sleeve. Down against the barnacled pilings, the longboat rises and falls on the black swell, manned by four sullen rowers who care nothing for Mary and everything for the Spanish prizes you promised them. Ten meager silver pieces weight your pocket—a pathetic sum that will buy neither an acquittal from a corrupt judge nor the silence of a hangman. Sterling turns sharply on his heel, his powdered queue whipping across…