Vedast wriggled slightly into a more comfortable position against the rock wall, being sure to keep close to the fire. He looked out from below the small outcropping of rock above him at the dark waves lapping against the rocky shore of Harvest Island’s inlet below him. He took another drink from the bottle resting on the stone next to him, feeling a sense of extreme satisfaction: His plan had worked perfectly, and the result was a pile of tax Drachma in a canvas sack further back below the outcropping, taken from Mayor Tilly of Palo Town. She’d been so frightened of his Acid Magic that he’d gotten almost double what he’d estimated she’d collected from the island’s inhabitants.
He took another drink, taking a moment to enjoy the taste of the ale before swallowing it. The Grand Navy ships usually stationed at Palo Town had been so busy with other tasks that he was able to escape in what was more or less a rowboat with a sail made from a tree branch and one of his old shirts. The makeshift sailboat was docked in the inlet, partially hidden from anyone out to sea who might have been looking.
Vedast leaned over and opened the sack. He picked up a few of the coins and let them fall back into the sack. The jingle of metal sent yet another flash of satisfaction through his alcohol-soaked mind.
He was about to take another drink when a sound brushed the edge of his consciousness. He wasn’t entirely sure if he’d actually heard it or not; he thought it sounded vaguely like the rustle of leaves. He shrugged and brought the bottle to his lips. It was probably a figment of his imagination, and if it wasn’t, it was probably a bird or some other small animal.
Abruptly, a loud crack echoed through the night and the bottle shattered, splashing ale all over him. He brushed fragments of glass off his legs and stood up angrily. A green magic circle flickered to life, hovering above the palm of his right hand.
A figure stepped out of the gloom in front of him, dressed in the garb of a Grand Navy Captain. One of his hands was holding a smoking flintlock, the other clasped behind his back. “Vedast McCrow, I am Navy Captain Becker,” he said, voice as cool as the night air. “I have twelve men back in the trees with muskets trained directly at your heart. Extinguish that magic circle and consider yourself under arrest. You have the right to remain–”
Vedast flung his arm toward Becker. A dripping green ball of acid shot directly at the Lieutenant, who leapt to his left, pulling out a second flintlock with the hand previously behind his back. The ball of acid splashed against a tree and small streamers of steam began to drift into the air as the liquid dissolved the wood.
Becker levelled the flintlock at Vedast and fired. The bullet whizzed off into the night, but the criminal fell to his knees with a cry of pain, clutching his suddenly bloody hand to his chest.
Becker lowered his flintlock and blew away the smoke rising from its barrel, confused at Vedast’s actions but grateful that he had a chance to easily capture him. He slipped both guns into his belt and gestured to the trees. Instantly, two Navy Marines holding muskets emerged and saluted Becker.
“Bind him and take him back to the ship,” Becker said. “Be sure to use the arcanium manacles so he can’t use his magic.” He stepped towards the overhang where Vedast’s campfire and the sack with the tax Drachma were. He glanced at the sack, noting its size. It was technically the Grand Navy’s money, and recovering a bag of this size would hopefully make up for his recent streak of failed arrests.
As he picked it up, he heard the jingling of chains as the two Marines secured Vedast’s arms and legs with chained manacles. “Alright,” one of the two Marines said to Vedast while the other bandaged Vedast’s injury. “Off to the ship with ye!” “Now, wait just a moment,” a voice said. A young man stepped into the campfire’s flickering orange light. He was dressed in an orange-trimmed grey gi of vaguely Ravennan design, brown sailor’s pants, black sailor’s boots trimmed with gold thread, and bronze and red pauldrons in a similarly Ravennan style. A simple grey cape hung behind him, rippling slightly with the small amount of night wind blowing through the clearing. In contrast to the clothes from the southern Bronze Sea kingdom, a broadsword of the type often carried into battle by the warriors of Keraxe gleamed at his left hip. Beneath a leather tricorn, his black hair stood on end from dried seawater and lack of care, and a light amount of stubble covered his lower jaw and chin. A distinctive zigzag-shaped scar crossed over his nose and carried on below his right eye. And he carried a smoking flintlock. “I believe that the arrest belongs to me.” Becker narrowed his eyes. He knew who this man was: Raimon Xhu, one of the two sons of the now-dead infamous pirate Theoden Xhu, wielder of the Equinox Curse. Though Raimon had no crimes to his name, his father’s status made him few, if any, friends within the Navy. The irony of his chosen profession of bounty hunter was not lost on Becker, especially because Raimon had been the one to swoop in and steal his previous five attempted arrests. It seemed he intended to do the same with this one. Raimon tucked the flintlock into his belt. “I don’t care about the tax money; I’m not a thief. But I will be taking the criminal.” He nodded respectfully to Becker. “We meet again, Captain.” “Raimon Xhu,” Becker said calmly and professionally, carefully masking his bubbling anger, “I have half a mind to arrest *you* for impeding Navy operations.” “But you won’t,” Raimon said quietly, shrugging off the threat. “If you’d paid more attention to the last five minutes, you’d see that I did all the work. I suspect that the bullet *you* fired is down there at the bottom of the ocean. *You’re* the ones impeding *my* operations. You can have the tax money. I just need the bounty.” Raimon walked over to Vedast and unwrapped the bandage around the criminal’s hand. Around the bullet wound, which was still leaking blood, was a small patch of skin that certainly had not been monochromatic a few minutes earlier. He held up the criminal’s hand, ignoring Vedast’s whimpers of pain, so that Becker could see. “As you can see, the wound has traces of Equinox magic. And unless I’m making a mistake here, I’m the only one here with some form of Equinox magic, that being the scraps of my father’s Curse that I wield.” Becker ground his teeth; this was the same argument Raimon presented each time. He wanted to arrest the man, but he had committed no crimes that Becker knew of. “Fine. Take the man,” he said exasperatedly. “I hope whatever you get from his bounty will be worth it.” Raimon’s smile faded slightly. “Believe me, Captain, it’ll be a while before I can get anything worth my time these past two months.” Scowling, Becker turned on his heel and gestured to his men. “Grab the bag and get back to the ship,” he said. “I have a report to write up and I’m not going to enjoy it.”
* * *
Raimon watched the Navy Captain go. When the shadows of the trees finally obscured their white-clothed forms, he grabbed Vedast by his collar and dragged him to his feet. The man was white-faced and looked as though he was going to bolt away at the first opportunity.
“Don’t try anything,” Raimon said in a threatening tone, calmly reloading his flintlock with his free hand. “Or I’ll shoot you again. And this time, I won’t aim for your hand. I suspect that life without an Achilles tendon isn’t the most pleasant.”
Raimon didn’t think it was possible for Vedast’s face, already white from fear and blood loss, to get any whiter, but it managed somehow. Except for his eyes and hair, the only spot of color on his face was the red flush on his cheeks from the ale.
“Nice of Captain Becker to leave the manacles on you,” Raimon said as they walked down to the shoreline. “It saves me some work, and once we get you to Silverhold, I might get to keep ‘em.”
Vedast did not respond to that comment.
A few minutes later, they emerged from the trees onto Harvest Island’s rocky main shoreline, where a sky-blue Navy brig was docked behind a smaller, more nondescript caravel. The words The Plasma Lance were inscribed in silver on the side of the caravel, well above the waterline.
“That wasn’t there when I arrived,” Raimon remarked to himself upon seeing the brig.
He marched Vedast up the caravel’s gangplank, where a group of six people, Raimon’s crew, waited.
“So you got him then?” said Pace, a man wearing a black gi with a pair of boxing gloves tucked into his belt, who was the crew’s shipwright. “Didn’t have much trouble from the Navy?”
“Fortunately,” Raimon replied. “I think we should tie him to the mast and set off soon, before the Navy can. Make ready for departure.”
The crew began to work furiously to ready the ship. They removed the hooks securing the vessel to the rocky shore, and as Raimon took the wheel, the rest of the crew took up positions on the sails and let them down. They filled with wind with a thwump and the ship began to move away from the island. While the rest were focusing on getting the ship sailing, Pace tied Vedast to the mainmast with a length of rope.
Raimon consulted his logbook for a map and made a few mental calculations, spinning the helm until the ship was pointed in the direction of Silverhold. The boat began to pick up speed, and Harvest Island was rapidly receding in the distance by the time the brig unfurled its sails.
Dawn came and went, and the ship was still on course. The crew fished a bit, though they didn’t catch much, and they cooked what they caught in a portable cooking pot they had with them. By midafternoon they sighted Silverhold. As they got closer, a sky-blue caravel sailed around the island from its patrol and took up a position alongside *The Plasma Lance*. “Name and purpose,” a Vice Captain aboard the other ship called. “Raimon Xhu, aboard *The Plasma Lance*, here to claim a bounty,” Raimon called back. “You’re free to land at the Prisoner Dock. I trust you know where that is,” the Vice Captain called. His voice had soured somewhat. The other caravel gradually turned off to the left and began to circle the island again. Raimon eased *The Plasma Lance* in and came up smoothly along the dock just as the rest of the crew got the sails furled and the ship came to a complete stop. A Navy Administrator, the rank that managed the logistics of the Navy bases, and two Marines were waiting for them. The Marines carried muskets and the Administrator had his hands behind his back. Raimon untied Vedast and led him down the gangplank. The two Marines took charge of the prisoner and led him inside. Raimon stepped up to the Administrator and extended a hand. The Administrator raised an eyebrow but otherwise ignored the gesture. “Payment,” he said, handing Raimon a small pouch. Raimon opened it and glanced through its contents. “Are you sure that Vedast is only worth seventy-five Drachma? I’m sure that his Wanted poster said a hundred and twenty.” The Administrator pulled a rolled sheet of paper from his sleeve and showed it to Raimon. It was a copy of Vedast’s wanted poster, listing a reward of seventy-five Drachma. “Positive,” the Administrator said. He tucked the poster back into his sleeve. “Fine,” Raimon said. He pocketed the pouch. “By the way, Captain Becker will probably be arriving a bit later today.” “I’ll never be able to understand how your pile of driftwood is able to outrun a Navy brig,” the Administrator said, the vaguest hint of a challenge in his voice. “We’d be grateful for any tips you could give us.” “Superior handling,” Raimon replied as he turned and walked back to his ship. “That’s all there is to it.”