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— more so when loaded with nails and fired at close range. Most of Fat Thomas slopped into the boat, but bits of him rained down into the sea.
    Rat squealed in fear. The cloud of smoke cleared. Jethro saw some of the shot had scraped across Rat’s shoulder and face. Just scratches. Rat held two pistols. He aimed the first at Jethro and fired. The crack and wisp of smoke were pitiful after the blunderbuss, but equally deadly.
    A sting like a whip lash cut across his cheek. Jethro felt blood ooze from the graze.
    Rat levelled his second pistol, but not fast enough. The belaying pin that Jethro hurled, underarm and left handed, twirled into Rat’s wrist and knocked the pistol from his hand. The axe, he threw over-arm. It spun through the air and buried itself into Rat Thatcher’s forehead with a soft thunk.
    Cross-eyed Rat tried to look at the axe until a slew of blood filled his eyes. “Well I’ll be a bedpan’s whore,” he whispered, then slumped back into the boat.
    Jethro stepped over Fat Thomas and pulled his axe from Rat’s head. “That be a fair cut,” he said, then eased Rat’s body over the side into the sea. He scooped up his belaying pin and stowed it in his belt along with the axe.
    Jethro stood in the middle of the row boat. When it was steady he surveyed the carnage. What was left of Fat Thomas lay in a pool of blood and worse in the bottom of the boat. One pudgy hand grasped the purse that contained nothing more than nails for the blunderbuss.
    He’d leave Fat Thomas where he was. Jethro had no mind to cover himself in gore on the man’s account. Instead he took off his shredded greatcoat and threw it over the man, as was decent. Then he unlooped the blunderbuss pistol and threw that down. His powder wouldn’t survive the swim. He’d rely on the belaying pin and axe. They’d served him well enough through his navy days and just as good when he was at his smuggling and pirating.
    The scratch on his cheek was sore, but he’d rather the scratch than a hole in his face and lead in his brain.
    “ Well, Jethro,” he said. “Time for a nice little mornin’ swim I reckons.” He dived into the water, broke the surface with hardly a ripple, resurfaced, breathed, cursed the cold and the salt sting on his wound, then pulled for the shore with strong, steady strokes.
    Piss-Pike watched Jethro swim. It was him. It was Cap’n Jethro ‘Fair-cut’ Henderson out of Plymouth Port. Returned to Freeport. Brave or mad, Piss-Pike didn’t know or care which. This news was worth coin. He’d be feasting at Sharkey’s within the hour.
    He ran from the quay to The Red Lantern and Slattern. Inside, the small common room was shuttered against the light. Piss-Pike made his way over the slumped bodies of sleeping whores and the snoring drunks wrapped around them. He skipped up the stairs and slid the latch to a sturdy oak door.
    A four poster bed dominated the extravagantly adorned room. On it sat Imelda, queen whore of Freeport. Despite the hour, despite her profession, to Piss-Pike she looked immaculate, beautiful. Her skin a lush unblemished brown, her hair ebony bright and black, the delicate little mole above her upper lip, her perfectly proportioned chin, the delicate nose, fiery hazel eyes, the cute knife with a ruby pommel and razor-sharp blade that she held at Piss-Pike’s throat.
    Knife?
    “ Piss-Pike you rancid little sneak-thief. I told you what would happen if I ever caught you in my inner sanctum.”
    “ Meldie,” Piss-Pike said in a sing-song baby voice. “Meldie. I’d never touch your inner sanctum . . . least not without paying first.”
    “ You invite death, wretch.” The knife tip pricked his skin.
    “ Wait, news, it’s news I brings.”
    Imelda withdrew the blade and tilted her head. “Go on.”
    There was movement beside her. A wraithlike figure, pale and wan, sat up in the bed. A foppish looking man, fully dressed, his clothes rich, fine, and clean. His wig fell over his gaunt face.