the Calypso and a pirate vessel. The villains were driven away, but the Calypso’s mainmast was damaged. It was made worse when she was caught in that storm in the Mona Passage a few days ago.” His gaze swept over the room. “The storm that has made Santo Domingo so very crowded of late. So many newcomers to our fair city, many of them seeking shelter at the governor’s fortress.”
“So, the Calypso has come into port for repairs?” Bianca laughed. “Not so mythical after all. I would have thought anyone who could steal the devil’s treasure could magically repair his own mainmast, even in the midst of a storm.”
“Oh, señora, I would not dismiss him so quickly.” Alameda laid a few coins on the table and rose to his feet. “Now I must be on my way. I have a conundrum of my own waiting at the fortress, though one I am rather looking forward to returning to. I thank you for the drink, and for the conversation. As always, it has been most enlightening.”
Bianca pocketed the coins as she watched him leave, his fine clothes quickly obscured by the crowd of rougher, rowdier patrons. He might be enlightened, yet she was more puzzled than ever. What was it about this one ship and her mysterious captain that seemed to have all of Santo Domingo balanced on a knife’s edge?
She made her way back to the counter, searching each face to see if one could belong to the unknown captain. Most of them were people she knew, sailors who usually called at her tavern when they were in port. They came to celebrate, to spend their newfound treasure, or to mourn losses at sea, bury their sorrows in her rum. The coin seemed plentiful enough tonight, but she also saw apprehension on their sunburned faces.
She glanced beneath the counter to make sure the pistol was still there. She didn’t usually care for firearms; they were too unpredictable, too apt to fire off at the wrong moment. Just like the inhabitants of this town. But when havoc threatened, there was nothing like a great deal of smoke and noise to disperse it.
Bianca took over pouring out the drink, sending Delores to wait on the tables. The room was crowded indeed now, every chair filled, men lined up along the walls. The windows were all open to let in the warm tropical breeze, but it wasn’t quite enough to banish the heat. The smell of rum and wool and Delores’s stew.
Bianca lifted the loose curls off the nape of her neck, the wild tendrils that always escaped their pins and clung damply to her skin. For some reason—perhaps Alameda’s words of “home”—she couldn’t be rid of the images of Venice in her mind. Cool, white rooms, their tall doors open to terraces over the canals. The sound of music in the air, masked faces around every corner. There had been danger aplenty there, too. No one knew that better than Bianca. But there was also great beauty.
She closed her eyes for a moment, and for that one instant she stood again outside her mother’s house. A girl full of foolish hopes and dreams, gazing up at the face of—
No! She slammed a goblet down on the counter, opening her eyes to the hot, noisy reality of the tavern. She would not think of that again, of Venice and Balthazar Grattiano. They were gone. This was all that mattered now. His betrayal had led to so much grief and hardship. To her life on her own.
She had work to do.
As she sent Delores off with another tray of drinks, a man appeared at the counter. Bianca stared at him curiously. He was not one of those regular customers. Indeed, she was certain she had never seen him before. He was tall, with the lean, muscled frame of someone accustomed to climbing rigging, but he was also thin, almost—hollow.
Despite the heat, he wore a hooded cloak, his face cast half in shadow. But Bianca could see enough to tell he was quite handsome, or would be if he shaved off his tangled black beard. His sun-darkened face, all gaunt angles, and his brown eyes were almost elegant, in a haunted way. Drawn with taut lines of some deep-seated sorrow. He gazed at her wearily.
For a moment, she wondered if he was a wraith, summoned by her own unhappy memories. A spirit, perhaps flown from the decks of that half-myth the Calypso. But then he gave her a whisper of a smile, and her strange fancies vanished. He was just a man, though certainly a very odd one. Even for Santo Domingo.
“Rum, por favour, señora,” he said, his voice deep and rusty.
Bianca poured out a generous measure of the thick brown liquid into a pottery goblet, sliding it to him over the scarred wood of the counter. “You are new to Santo Domingo, yes?”
“It has been some time since I last visited,” he answered, after he neatly drained the liquor. She poured out more. “This place was owned by Señor Valdez then.”
“It has been a time. I bought it from Valdez more than a year ago, before he went back to Spain.”
“A year ago,” he muttered, as if that was an unfathomable length of time. Perhaps it was. Lives did change in only a moment, after all.
She found herself unaccountably curious about this wraith. People came and went on this island, all of them intent on their own business, most of them running from something. Just like Bianca herself.
“Was your ship damaged in the storm?” she asked. Perhaps he was even a crew member of the Calypso. That would explain why she had never seen him before. A mysterious wraith from a mythical ship.
He nodded shortly, holding out his goblet for yet more rum. “I will not be here for long, señora.”
Here in Santo Domingo? In her tavern? In the mortal world? It was obvious he wasn’t in a talking mood, so she just poured.
“Oh, señora!” Delores cried, hurrying behind the counter to refill her tray. The noise was almost deafening now. “They say the Calypso is in port! And that her captain defeated a vast fleet of pirates and repaired the mainmast in a storm with his own hands…”
When Bianca turned back to the counter, the cloaked man was gone. She saw only a glimpse of his back, as he headed towards a small table in the shadowed corner.
As the night went on, some of the men passed out on the floor and were dragged out by their comrades, only to be replaced by new, thirstier patrons. More men from ships seeking repairs after the storm. But Bianca did not glimpse the wraith-man again, busy as she was pouring the rum and ale and mixing more punch.
Matters seemed to have reached a crescendo of laughter and incoherent, drunken shouts when the door opened once more. Not with a great bang, as with more desperate men in search of liquid oblivion, but slowly. Quietly. Yet still everyone turned to look.
Bianca straightened from wiping spilled ale on the counter, pushing her hair back from her brow. She tensed at the sudden watchful air in the room, the way the great noise fell to a murmur—like the waves of the sea just before a storm hit.
This, then, was surely the trouble that had been coming all night.
She turned to the door. A man stood there, framed in the night-darkness. Not alone—there were six or seven others arrayed behind him. But he was all she could see.
He was tall, probably taller than any other man in the tavern as he had to duck his head through the doorway. Like the strange cloaked man, he had the lean frame of a man who had spent his life balanced on a pitching deck and climbing swaying rigging. His chest and legs were supple beneath his black leather jerkin and hose, a tall pair of worn black leather boots. She glimpsed powerful, bronzed forearms revealed by the turned-back sleeves of his white shirt. A man of action, then, of the sea and
