First Blood

Yselle Corvane's fencing salle occupies a long loft above a sailmaker's shop, with a white chalk line drawn down the center of the floorboards and practice foils racked beside the door. Without their swordmistress, her students are drilling clumsily.

Speaking over one another, the students tell you Corvane departed last night aboard a noblewoman's yacht—insisting that young Ostrander lunged illegally before the referee gave the word to begin.

Blocking the harbor entrance sits a rival bounty hunter's brig, and a rowboat pulls alongside your hull carrying a well-dressed man wearing three gold rings: Tibalt Brandt.

"We both hold Lord Ostrander's bounty poster, Captain—except his lordship's vengeful daughter has also hired me on the side, and she doesn't want Corvane brought back alive. Let's make this simple: take a quarter-share of my payout right now, locate the yacht for me, and look the other way when my brig moves in. Otherwise, we can settle our disagreement right here in the harbor mouth."

Painted white with a green stripe, Lady Ondine's pleasure yacht floats motionless in a dead calm with her sails hanging limp. On her foredeck, a woman in shirtsleeves is practicing sword forms alone, her steel blade flashing in the sun.

Spotting your ship, Yselle Corvane walks to the rail. "You're here on Ostrander's bounty, I take it. Come aboard alone, Captain, and we can settle my fate like civilized people—or open fire on the yacht and discover how well Lady Ondine's gun crews shoot."

Sitting calmly in your brig with her wrists crossed, Corvane shows no fear. "Lord Ostrander wants me brought back alive for the exact same reason his foolish son challenged me on the pier: he wants a crowd to watch a swordsman of his house cut me down. Except he knows no single duelist can beat me—so when that courtyard gate locks behind me, there will be six of his guards waiting with drawn blades."

She shrugs lightly. "Still, it's your bounty poster, Captain."

"One friendly bout to first blood right here on deck, with Lady Ondine as referee," Corvane proposes, testing her rapier's point against her thumb. "If your champion draws first blood, I will walk into your brig voluntarily and face Lord Ostrander with a smile. If I win, you carry me safely to the next port and report that you never found this yacht."

She lowers her blade slightly. "Or we can skip the bout altogether and you can simply grant me passage. I'm forty-one years old, Captain—for once, I wouldn't mind being carried somewhere without having to cross swords first."

Distrusting hired bounty hunters, Lord Ostrander sent his own household warship ahead of you: blocking the entrance to the next port sits a black-and-gold cutter with his mourning-clad daughter standing on the quarterdeck, a drawn sword in her hand.

"Heave to, Captain!" she calls across the water. "You are carrying a posted fugitive! Put Yselle Corvane into my boat for a finder's fee, or I will sink you as an accomplice to murder!"

Beside you at the rail, Corvane waits silently for your command.

Standing on the pier beside her sea chest without a bounty on her head for the first time in a month, Yselle Corvane looks ten years younger.

"I pay my debts, Captain. I can give you what silver I have left, or I can spend a week drilling your crew until they handle cutlasses like master fencers. Or—if you have a berth open—I can sign onto your ship. I spent twenty years teaching pampered noblemen's sons how to posture with foils; I'd like to see what working sailors can do with real steel."