Sonja Nehalenniasdóttir is finally free. After a daring escape from servitude and a sharp rise to first mate of the North Sea's most notorious pirate crew, she's survived punishing storms, several double crosses, and even diffused a mutiny against t...
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SAILS OF WRATH AND SILVER ✵ IV. ——————————————————
Over the next few days, Sonja saw to that every sort of stock from barrels of fresh water to a tabby cat named Cordelia made it onto Nehalennia's Desire. She'd been consulting with Joostzoon and the ship's accounts all the while, spending what they had at Porpoise's markets widely but wisely.
If the crew had any suspicions regarding what sort of voyage they were preparing to undertake, they didn't share them. Sonja wished they did. She only had side glances and grimaces to go off of, neither of which were particularly telling in the scheme of their most recent labors. With the wills of nearly a hundred men, they'd dragged their empty shiponto the gray sand beach at high tide. Then, they'd secured her broadside with ropes around the mastheads and tied her to a grove of shoreside grand firs.
The ship creaked in the dark of night and had her hull cleaned by the light of the sun. Some men worked from rope swings thrown over the tilted side, others on ladders, but all went along the underside with blades or torches, scraping barnacles and burning sea scum. The crew's carpenter, Mister Van Muers, advised them, leaving the officers free to supervise watches and tend to their tasks from Strijk.
Sunset was hours past when Sonja remembered Strijk's request for a new charts case, and Porpoise's streets had already transformed into a disorienting riot of color and light. The crowds on Walvis's Exchange ebbed and flowed to the pulse of fiddles and drums, chasing their foolish desires and running from whatever troubles had followed them ashore. Brandy and wine cascaded like waterfalls from the bottles and mugs of sailors sing-shouting shanties and staggering down the street. And from the balconies of the pleasure houses came the calls of sirens dolled with powder and rouge, their charm distracting unsuspecting passersby while their pickpocket friends danced by to collect enough coin for another round.
Sonja traversed her way through the throng, her hat low on her brow as she kept close to the bead-draped lanterns. Terrible things happened in the darkness of adjacent alleyways, the worst of them drowned out by cheers from the Exchange. Few places on Porpoise were more dangerous, even for a pirate, especially for a woman with a bounty on her head.
But that night, something possessed Sonja to seek the comforts of a life past despite the risk of gutting or capture. Soon after she stepped off the Exchange, she was greeted by the jaunty tune of a piper and the lonely oak swaying outside the Emerald Isle.
The Isle had been built as a tribute to its owners' native Ireland, its forest green shutters and ivy-coated stone meant to evoke lush hills and craggy cliffs. Like every place in Porpoise, it had a gimmick to lure and trap potential customers. If you wanted to sip the purest poteen or pound spiced ale poured by barmaids with flame red curls, there was no better bar. Homesick sailors frequented its parlor, bringing scores of their crewmates who were quickly entranced by the merrymaking and endless shades of green.
