The Bright and Breaking Sea (A Captain Kit Brightling Novel Book 1)

It took only minutes to reach the trade zone, as the waves pushed the boat toward the harbor. There’d been no need for Kit to touch the current, and a good thing, as the jolly boat was small enough that the force might have ripped them to kindling. But Kit listened to the sea the entire way, as if the connection might insulate them from danger, or save them from grinding against the tangle of rock and lumber.

They tied up under the narrowed gaze of the pirates who waited with their own vessels, or looked back from the dock, watching the new arrivals.

“Grant, with me. Sampson, Watson, stay with the boat,” Kit said, climbing onto the dock. “And watch the tea.”

Grant behind her, they walked across the weather-beaten planks and inspected the available wares with the narrowed gazes of suspicious buyers.

The merchants were mostly salt-crusted sailors with sun-lined skin, and the goods—bad food, bits of scavenged rope, meager weapons—weren’t much of an improvement. The air smelled of overripe fruit and overripe bodies, and she had a sudden appreciation for the relative fastidiousness of Crown Command sailors.

Kit picked a merchant, a block of a man with tan skin, a bald pate, and eyebrows large enough to keep the sun out of his eyes. His offerings were limited, but the quality seemed good.

She approached him. Waited until he looked up and belched. And maintained her flat stare.

“If you’re done with that, we’ve biscuit to trade.”

The man snorted. “Don’t need no moldy biscuits ’ere. Got more than enough.”

Kit curled her lip. “Not moldy, you cur. Fresh from the Crown Command, and taken from a packet off the coast of Gallia.” Best keep the details relatively close to some part of the truth.

“Don’t want any biscuits,” he said. “What else?”

Kit looked at Grant and frowned, as if debating her options. Then cursed under her breath.

“Tea.”

Interest blossomed in the merchant’s eyes. “From where?”

“Same packet. Headed right to the queen’s own teapot. It’s a bit too freshly acquired, if you catch my meaning, to sell on the Isles.”

“How freshly acquired?”

“Thirty-six hours, give or take.”

The man watched her for another moment, and Kit wondered if he couldn’t see the thudding of her heart. Not in fear, but excitement.

The merchant held out his palm. “Sample?”

Kit opened a kerchief she’d filled with tea leaves, offered it. Hoped the man’s palate wasn’t so developed he could tell queen’s tea from officers’. He held the kerchief beneath his nose, sniffed with a curled lip that said he was expecting to find something foul.

And closed his eyes in ecstasy.

Kit had to work to keep the triumphant smile off her face.

“How much?” he asked. No respectable merchant made the first offer.

Kit named her price, and the man snorted.

“It’s tea, not opium.”

Negotiations took ten more precious minutes, so Kit was fighting back impatience by the time they’d decided on a price, and it wasn’t nearly as much as the tea was worth. But a little desperation worked in her favor, she figured, so she cursed, but nodded. “Fine.

“We’ll get it from the boat,” Kit said, and began to walk toward it. But Grant put a stopping hand on her arm, and his expression was mutinous.

“It’s my damned tea, and I’m not handing it over to anyone without coin in hand.”

The merchant snorted. “You’re touched if you think I’m handing over coin for a kerchief of leaves. Could be a box of rat shit.”

“And what would I be doin’ with a box of rat shit?” Grant asked, disbelief in every word.

The merchant lifted a shoulder. “Don’t know you, do I?”

“I know you’re a big, dumb bastard won’t give me my money.”

The merchant’s lip curled. “What did you say to me?”

Kit pulled her arm away from Grant. “Enough,” she said, and the authority in her tone had both men looking at her with surprise in their expressions. Kit put a hand on her sabre, which had the chatterers around them quieting, watching. Probably hoping to see a good fight, if not jump right into one. She understood the need to play a role, but they were wasting time.

“We aren’t handing over our merchandise without payment,” she said. “Which means we’re holding the tea until we get our money.”

“I’m not hauling crates in this heat without more coin,” Grant said. And before he could blink, Kit had her dagger out, its tip pressed at his crotch. She’d considered the heart, but this seemed much more piratey.

“I’m in charge here,” she said, voice a low growl of anger. “You’ll do as I order, or you’ll be dropped a hundred miles offshore for the sea dragons to eat. Is that clear?”

Grant expanded his nostrils as he exhaled with emotion. “Captain,” he said, the word an obvious insult. And then muttered under his breath about unruly women.

“Get the crates,” the merchant said. “The rest is up to the Five.”

Grant and Kit walked back to the boat in what appeared to be fuming silence.

“You might warn a man next time you’re going to point a dagger at his manhood,” Grant said.

“Grab my arm again and pointing will be the least of your worries.”

They reached the jolly boat, found Sampson lying napping in the sun, and Watson picking her nails clean with the point of a dagger. Kit kicked the bow. Sampson blinked and shot up. Watson flicked away some bit of grime from the tip of the knife.

Very convincing, Kit thought. “We’ve sold the tea,” she said. “Hand it over.”

Sampson rose, the boat bobbing as he moved from stern to bow, tea in his arms. “Good price?”

“No,” Grant said with disgust, and gave Kit a look with matching disdain. “Can’t trust a woman to negotiate.”

“He’s just angry I threatened him with castration.”

Watson had to bite back a grin. “Did he deserve it?”

“Inarguably,” Kit said as Sampson handed over the crate, then retrieved the other two, piled them on the deck.

“Sampson, with us. Watson, stay with the boat.” Frowning, Kit glanced around, noting the eyes still on her. And the rather burly man and woman currently talking to the merchant, which told Kit the merchant wasn’t sure of them despite their rather marvelous acting.

“Looking a bit hairy,” she said, pursing her lips as if considering her options. “Watson, when the tide begins to turn, perhaps you’ll find a reason to move to the other end of the dock, nearer the rendezvous location.”

“Sir,” Watson said, and began to chew thoughtfully at a hangnail.

Ready for their next act, they hefted their crates.

The burly pirates were gone by the time Kit, Grant, and Sampson reached the merchant. He looked them over wordlessly, then gestured them to follow.

The fortress hulked in front of them, as much vines and broken stone as actual structure. They walked the stone bridge in silence toward the arched entrance, as leather-skinned pirates sat or squatted along the edges of the bridge, with poles and string reaching into the water. One landed a fish the color of the flowers outside the palace, sunlight flashing across its scales like a mirror.

When they reached the entrance, the merchant walked to the guards stationed there, who both looked formidable.

She watched as they chatted, as the merchant and guards looked from her crew, to the trade zone, to the crates they carried.

They’d probably be allowed to enter the fortress, Kit thought. Perhaps make it as far as the courtyard. And that’s when the trap would be sprung.

Kit gave a fake yawn, as if completely unconcerned and bored by the wait, made a show of looking around. “The first distraction is yours,” she whispered to Grant.

“Appropriate,” he said back, “given I’m in charge of the mission.”

“Certainly,” she muttered, “if one ignores the days of sailing that got you here.” She glanced back again, feigned boredom. “What’s taking so damned long?” she called out, and got a very rude gesture for her trouble.

“How long does it take to trade in tea?” she asked shortly when the merchant returned. “The tide will have turned before we finish this deal.”

“You’ll get your coin,” the merchant muttered, and gestured them forward.

They walked beneath the stone archway, one of the guards falling into step behind them, and into a courtyard. It was open to the sky, the walls of the fortress’s top story rising above it.

These interior walls were built of the same dark and pitted stone as the rest of the fortress, but that was the only commonality. The exterior was a warning; the interior was a celebration. The middle of the courtyard was a garden of greenery, with trees rising up toward the sky. Flowering vines in startling pinks and blues climbed around the columns that edged it, and stands of rosemary and dandy scented the area. A narrow pool of water ran through the space, golden coins glimmering up through the water, and at its head a golden cherub sculpture that relieved itself into the pool.

“It’s not Exeter Palace,” Grant said. “But it has a certain appeal.”

“Don’t need to be,” the merchant said. “The Five’s tougher than the queen and all the rest put together.”

“So you say,” Grant murmured. “You actually ever meet the Five?”

The merchant stopped, looked back at them with disdain. “Of course I’ve met the damn Five. Shut your mouth, or I’ll shut it for you.”

Grant snorted, and his voice was all arrogance. “You’re welcome to try.”

Something like anticipation gleamed in the merchant’s eyes. He was obviously ready for a fight, but there was certainty in his expression now. He’d called for reinforcements, Kit guessed.

And they were definitely going to lose the tea.

“What the hell are we doing in here?” Kit asked, shifting the crate impatiently.

Footsteps began to sound from somewhere in the fortress, but the noise echoed off the stone so Kit had no idea of its direction.

“Ow! You son of an ox. Watch your damned feet! You’ll break my damned toes.”

Grant’s voice rang out, and by the time Kit had turned to look, his fist was flying. He hit the guard with a surprise jab that popped back his head, sent him staggering back. He might have regained his feet, but he tripped on a raised bit of stone, fell backward with a rattling thud.

And there was her distraction, Kit thought, hefting the box of tea. And with apologies to whatever kind gods had thought to gift sailors with it, threw it at the merchant.

She made use of her moment of surprise and pulled out her sabre as pirates (clean and dirty, respectively) swarmed the room like ants. The tea was tossed aside as Sampson and Grant took out their weapons. Sampson had a thick, short sword, Grant a pair of small, sleek blades.

The first pirate, unfortunate of dentition and shaggy of hair, came at her with his own gleaming sword. She met his thrust with a blow of steel against steel. He was a big man—more than six feet tall, and bulky with muscle. Rather logically, he appeared to believe he could simply break her in half. But Kit wasn’t weak, and he wasn’t her first pirate.

She knew to let him lead, to give him space to try to pummel her with that enormous broadsword. It clanged against stone, sending up sparks. She mashed his instep and dodged to the side when he tried to grab her with a meaty fist, and then brought her sword across his back. He screamed as blood welled, and turned back to her with murder in his eyes.

“Not today,” she murmured, and brought her sabre up against his blows. Once, twice, thrice she blocked, each meeting of blades sending a shock of pain through her arms. Their swords crossed, he dropped one hand to grab her wrist, smiled in pleasure as she tried to writhe out of his manacle-like grip. He chuckled, looming over her.

She went limp, as if pretending to faint, sword arm falling.

Yes, the move was beneath her. But it was so very effective.

Instinctively, he released her wrist, intending to pick her up bodily. And dropped his sword arm. She slammed up with her sabre, striking the side of his face hard enough to have him wobbling backward and then stumbling over a pirate felled by Grant or Sampson.

He hit the ground, head striking stone with a crack that made her wince in sympathy. His eyes rolled back. She kicked away his sword, glanced around. Found Sampson pummeling a pirate with his bare fists, sword temporarily abandoned, and Grant engaged with another in a battle. His movements were sharp, crisp. Well trained and practiced, but not only. There was power there.

She didn’t like being wrong again about his presumed aristocratic insufficiencies—and she enjoyed watching him fight more than she was comfortable admitting. So she looked away, was nearly relieved when another pirate approached, young and skinny, her hand shaking around her sword hand. Not feigning inexperience, Kit thought, but actually inexperienced.

Kit turned to face her, smiled. And held nothing back. She advanced, struck, slashing one way and then the next, forcing the girl to block blow after blow, to wince each time she managed, just barely, to avoid being run through.

Close, Kit thought, and kept advancing. She struck left, and the girl met the shot again. Time to finish this, Kit thought, and circled the sword until the girl’s wrist bent backward and her own blade clattered to the ground.

The girl swallowed hard, then turned on her heel and ran.

“One way’s as good as another,” Kit said, then ran back across the courtyard. She reached it, and heard the floor shake as reinforcements were called in. She looked back, found the girl moving through the archway, this time with a dozen men behind her.

It was time to change the fight, she thought, and pulled one of Jane’s sparkers from her bag.

“To the archway!” Kit said. “And cover your ears!”

Sampson, who knew how to respond to an order from a commanding officer, didn’t wait for Kit to go first. He just ran.

Grant hesitated, and she saw the question in his eyes. But there was no room for chivalry here. He obviously thought better of it as his eyes flattened again, and he followed Sampson.

With more footsteps coming toward their flank, Kit turned for the archway, pressed down on the glass, and then tossed the sparker behind her.