He was standing in a dark alley, the faint noises of a busy city muted in the background. He knew his way around here; back in the days as a patrol officer he had roamed this part of the city often enough. And he had arrested some drug dealers here as well.

"Is this the way to greet an old friend?" A familiar voice, face blurred in the shady half-darkness of the alley. Mocking, bitter.

"I'm sorry, Damien. I really didn't know it would turn out this way. But it's our job to uphold the law. I couldn't let you continue like this. You sold the drugs we confiscated!"

A scoff. "Always the knight in shining armor, high and mighty. You don't have a greedy ex-wife or a bunch of debts. Honor won't pay the rent."

"Damn it, I still spoke for you to the guy from internal affairs. They could've arrested you. But they offered you that job as prison warden instead."

A bitter laugh. "And how well that turned out. They were talking of closing all the prisons to replace them with with cryo sleep ever since that crazy guy presented his invention to the world. Do you remember the day at the precinct when we were all watching that press conference on tv? We had a good laugh afterwards."

He couldn't help smiling although the situation was all but funny. "Yes. We joked about stowing our freshly-caught criminals in the big freezer in the cantina."

"I was two weeks at my new job when they told as we were all sacked and not needed anymore because those freezers where they stuff people in now don't need to be guarded," Damien said with a flat voice. "And guess what? No one else wanted to give me a job afterwards."

Of course it was all true and extremely back luck. He felt back although he knew that at least that part was not his fault. "I really didn't come here to argue with you again. I wanted to see how you're doing and I wanted to help you."

"Help me? You could have kept your mouth shut." The voice was sharp as a razor now. The friend, once trusted and well-known, was almost gone. But he couldn't give up now.

"But if you really want to know how I live now, come with me. I'll show you something." The figure started to walk without waiting for an answer.

The streets, one more shabby than the next, blurred into each other. Finally, a door, with a beaten sign over it: "Soup kitchen."

Inside it was warm, bright and bustling. Two dozen men, all more or less dirty and with tattered clothing, sat at long tables and greedily slurped their soups.

"Good evening! I haven't seen you yesterday, are you okay?" A young woman, wavy hair like a golden halo, smiled at them from behind the counter. She was wearing a designer shirt, protected by a stained apron. He couldn't make out the name on the tag she was wearing. Something beginning with E.

"Thanks, dear. I was in the other soup kitchen in Brompton Lane yesterday."

"And your friend?" The woman's smile was almost blinding, warm, and sweet.

"Oh, him? He just wanted to see your good work, love." It sounded friendly, but there was venom in it.

"If you have some free time, you could help us out," the woman suggested. "We always need volunteers." She reached out to fill two bowls with soup. "Enjoy!"

They took some free seats and ate in silence. He wanted to say something, anything, but it was all wrong.

"So now you know how I'm doing." A last slurp of soup, a wolfish grin. "All thanks to you and your good intentions."

He couldn't stand the gaze. Instead he looked back to the counter where the young woman was just taking off her apron and grabbing an unobtrusive, but no doubt very expensive handbag. "See you tomorrow!"

"Come on, shining knight, let's escort the lady to the subway. You know how dangerous the streets are."

They stood up and followed her.

* * *

Nicolas woke up right before dawn, panting. This was the third or fourth time he was having this strange dream. But as soon as he was awake, he couldn't remember any details. He just knew it was always the same. After a few deep breath, he rolled out of his hammock and looked for his boots. He was between decks, sleeping next to the other crew hands. Most of the hammocks were already empty, just a few sleepers from the night watch remained.

Being cabin boy and scullion was not bad at all, Nicolas had to admit after living a few days now among the pirates. There were no beatings, no humiliations, just the generally rough tone aboard a ship and the occasional good-natured joke on his own account.

John Gold was a wellspring of knowledge regarding the ship and her crew and a rather talkative fellow, so Nicolas quickly learned almost everything there was to know. As he had suspected, the Siren's Call had been Admiral Heron's old ship, and Captain Blake was his successor. The crew was unwaveringly loyal to him, so there would be no chance of anyone helping Nicolas to get to the pirates' secret navigational charts. Those, he had learned from John, were encrypted and could only be read by the captains and their first mates. Anyone else would not be able to make hand or foot of it.

Nicolas, who had always prided himself to be a good judge of character, was completely convinced now that none of them would be tempted by any money or benefits in the world. They would rather die than betray their comrades. He grudgingly admired this strength and integrity among this bunch of lawless thieves and murderers, but it made his mission even more difficult. And, even worse, he caught himself starting to like them. John Gold was always good-natured, but sharp-eyed and tolerated no sloppiness, a great superior to any cabin boy. Quartermaster Lucky knew every nook and cranny of the ship and saw to it that the crew was always in good spirits with enough supplies. Nicolas also learned that aside from Evangielle and M'Bato, there were two other formidable women aboard: the Caeran sisters Cara and Estela, dark-eyed beauties with faces almost as similar as twins, who were a skilled fighter and the ship's surgeon respectively.

There was only one chance for his mission at the moment: get close enough to Captain Blake or Mistress Evangielle to discover the secret of decrypting the charts. There had to be a way to learn how they did it. Nicolas had a bit of experience with military codes and knew that usually there was a kind of key needed to decipher a message. But this key could be anything: one page of a certain book, a special device, or even something as simple as a children's nursery rhyme. Given the general cleverness of the pirates, it would not be something a cabin boy would stumble upon by tidying up the room. Nicolas had to be patient and find out more bit by bit.

"Me sure ye want to know where we headed after all," John Gold asked him half an hour later while they were sitting in the galley, peeling potatoes for lunch. His Albian port accent always reminded Nicolas of Lazy Jack. "Ye noticed that we're going south, right?"

"Yes," Nicolas replied. "I know a thing or two about navigation. South of Calez there are only two things: the Akalu Islands and The Fortune Atoll." Of course he had hoped for the pirates to venture home quickly so he could see the infamous hideout for himself.

John grinned knowingly. "Can't wait to see ye new home, aye? But that has to wait. We going to the Akalu Islands. One of the biggest, Teliki, ye may heard of. Albia has its outpost there in the North called Fairisle." His face got grim. "I almost ended up there as prisoner to work in them mines or on them fields after them officials cought me stretching me rum in the tavern me owned at Whiteport. I'll tell ye the story someday. - At the south of Teliki, however, where them brave little Albian soldiers don't never dare go, is a village named Juna. We'll meet some friends there."

"I've never been to the Islands," Nicolas admitted truthfully.

John laughed, waving his peeling knife around. "Then ye in for a treat, me lad! Thankfully, we have good relations with them natives. We treat them as equals and trade goods and favours fairly. Not like them Albians and Jerainians bent on conquering them islands by force and taking all them treasures."

Admittedly, Nicolas had never thought about this. Like any Albian, he had been raised to believe that his people were the best, brightest, and bravest out there, destined to rule the world. He had never considered how the people of Akalu or other countries felt when Albians landed on their shores and claimed dominion.

"And is helping that M'Bato is with us. She can translate if there's a misunderstanding," John continued. "She's one of them few Akaluites aboard our ships. Them usually don't never leave them home islands. But she's special." The way he spoke about her betrayed an interest that went beyond friendship. Nicolas sensed an opening here.

"On the day I came aboard, she was at the helm. It almost seemed like she was able to see through the fog. I've seen her doing this a few times now. I heard stories about Akaluite women having magic powers to curse their enemies or see the future. Is she one of them?" Truthfully, Nicolas didn't believe in magic at all, but he wanted to find out more about this mysterious woman.

John shrugged. "I've never seen no Akaluites doing any real magicing. But M'Bato can sense them waves. She just knows where we are and where the ship is a-goin'. She can also sense shallow waters or maelstroms. That's why she's our helmswoman."

"But she can't make the ship move on its own, right?" Nicolas needed to know, although he knew it might be dangerous to pry further. "The way the Siren's Call moved through the fog during the attack... how did you do that? There was no breeze, and the ship has no oars."

John's expression became distant again. "I'm sure you were seeing things, lad. Happens all the time to people during a fight for them lifes. And that silly tradeship you where on had them sails set like the greenest of landlubbers. I saw it meself. No wonder you didn't feel no breeze."
Nicolas nodded. "I guess you're right."

They continued to peel the potatoes in silence, but Nicolas was now sure there was indeed something secret and strange about this ship. And he would find out sooner or later.

* * *

Nicolas' first real chance to learn more about Captain Blake came one evening about a week later. It had been a quiet travel with no further attacks on other ships, and according to John, they would reach Juna in the morning.

"Ye serve tea to the captain tonight. He wants to meet ye anyways," John said. "He trusts Mistress Evangielle enough to pick up new crew members, but everyone has to be approved by the captain before them get any further up in the ranks. Now stand up straight and pick ye answers carefully. The captain hates idiots. And he don't want no tea splashed onto the saucer. Off with ye."

With this final warning, Nicolas quickly combed his fingers through his hair, dusted off his coat and then took the tray with the tea set. It was made from finest Shawan bone porcelain, delicate and precious. Almost everything on this ship had been luxurious and refined, he had noted. There was nothing coarse or barbaric about the way these people lived. There was even a bathroom for the crew with bathing tubs that was frequently used, no small feat regarding the amounts of fresh water it required. Used to the comparatively low standards of the Albian Navy, Nicolas had been eager to use these amenities as often as possible. Subsequently, there were no illnesses aboard due to low hygiene or bad food. Since he had been helping preparing the meals for the last weeks, Nicolas knew first-hand that salt meat and sea bisquits only took up a minority of the meals. There was a huge amount of fermented and fresh vegetables and fruits aboard, keeping everyone from getting scurvy, and every day some crew hands took their time fishing. The most interesting part of it all was the amount of rum consumed, however. Nicolas had never seen so many sailors drink so little. No one was ever drunk. This was also due to Captain Blake's orders: during shore leave, every one could drink as much as they liked, but not at sea. And if a man could keep a real sailor from drinking, he had to be truly formidable.

Nicolas noticed that he was indeed a bit nervous about finally meeting Captain Blake. If he could get this man's trust, then he really had a chance. But if the captain got suspicious, everything would be over - and Nicolas would be glad to get out alive.

With a final deep breath, Nicolas shifted the tray to one hand so he could knock on the door. "Sir, it's your tea", he called.

"Enter."

Nicolas opened the door and stepped in.

The captain's cabin was not as big as he had expected. Nicolas knew by now there was a war room where the senior crew assembled to discuss the next steps and where also the charts were being kept locked up. He had heard that the captain spend most of his time in that war room and not in his cabin. Nicolas himself had spent little time on deck due to his work in the galley, but so far, he had never seen the captain up there. He might as well be a ghost after all.

The elegantly decorated room was dominated by a large window at the rear. There was an alcove with a bed, a small desk with lots of trinkets on it, and a big sea chest. The dark, wooden walls were plastered with paintings of various sizes. Nicolas recognized some of them as works of famous painters.

Captain Blake stood at the window, his back turned to Nicolas. In the dim light of the candles he was just a silhouette against the darkening sky, broad-shouldered and tall, in a white coat and white wig.

"Put it on the desk and serve," he ordered in Albian. A refined accent, as polished as Mistress Evangielle's. Nicolas hesitated. He had heard this voice before. But where?

He did as he was told, carefully pouring the tea as not to spill anything. He cleared his throat when he was finished. "Sir, Cook said you wanted to see me? I'm Nico Ordano, from the Cygnia."

Captain Blake finally turned around. Lazy Jack's description hadn't been exaggerated: the man looked like a wraith from beyond the grave. His face was chalk-white like a lady's at court, and he was wearing a white eye patch on his left eye. His right one was surrounded by khol, making it even more intense. Together with the white clothing and wig, it was enough to scare any brave man. But what unnerved Nicolas the most was the visible eye. It was a stormy gray, colorless like its surroundings, but yet, like the voice, so terribly familiar. The way Captain Blake was looking at him felt like he was trying to read Nicolas' thoughts, discover his deepest secrets. Although this was a normal, human eye, Nicolas was reminded of the terrible eyes of the siren figurehead.

A slight smile played at Captain Blake's colorless lips. "Evangielle didn't mention your name. Welcome aboard. I heard that you're perfoming your duties well and that you're not too proud to do the lowest works. It says a lot about you."

"I'm trying my best, sir," Nicolas replied. He felt a drop of sweat wandering down his temple.
"Come here," Captain Blake ordered. "It's late. You can help me get undressed."

Nicolas stepped closer, hoping that his hands didn't shake. If he told this story later to Finnis or Admiral Morton, they would not believe him. Carefully, he took the embroidered overcoat and hung it on a clothes rack at the wall next to the chest. Without it, Captain Blake seemed a lot slimmer as if the whole bulk of his body had consisted only of cloth. When Captain Blake sat down so Nicolas could take off the surprisingly high-heeled boots and the stockings, it dawned on Nicolas that he was taking off a much more sophisticated disguise than he had imagined. The seemingly tall, broad-shouldered, bulky man turned out to be rather slim and slightly smaller than himself.

"Hand me the wash cloth," Captain Blake ordered.

Nicolas obeyed, watching in fascination as the white paint went off, revealing very fair skin. The eye patch was taken off, as well. There was a much smaller scar than expected underneath, only a thin line. The eye itself was intact. Once the surrounding paint was gone, the eyes seemed to be blue rather than gray.

"No, it can't be..." Nicolas realized too late that he had said this aloud. But he just could not believe it.

Captain Blake took off his wig, and a cascade of red hair fell over his shoulders. He smiled that tiny, inviting smile Nicolas had seen a few weeks ago in a dimly-lit tavern. And he remembered everything that followed.

"What is it, Nico? You look like you have seen a ghost."