Chapter 23: A Haven in the Mist

Before long, a slender Bayfolk dragonship rowed out of the fog, its bow and stern curving high above the water.

A figure in a ragged black robe stood at the bow, holding a whale-oil lantern that shone with brilliant white light. He gave them a casual wave.

The pirates drew sharp breaths.

Cold, damp, briny sea air washed over them, seeping into their collars and deep into their bones. The eerie figure might have been a ferryman of the dead. They stood rooted to the deck, scarcely daring to breathe.

The dragonship paid no heed to their feelings. It swept through an arc across the water and slipped back into the white fog. From outside, they could see only the faint white glow of its lantern receding into the mist.

“He’s the pirate port’s guide. Get us moving. We’re following him.”

Only when Redgaze gave the order did the crew scramble to get Maneater Shark under way and plunge into the damp, salt-laden fog.

A Pilot of the Lighthouse Sequence, Julian thought. His lantern burns a special whale oil made from pilot whales. He also needs the appropriate permissions under the [Pirate Code] before he can guide ships freely through the mist around Iron Anchor Bay.

The work of a doorman, but a position of considerable standing. The harbor’s gatekeepers and first line of defense were all trusted followers left behind by Whalescourge, the former Pirate King of the North Sea.

The pirates visiting for the first time remained nervous after the fog swallowed them. Julian felt only a sense of welcome. His knowledge of the supernatural rose naturally to mind.

A thousand years ago, at the height of their power, the seafaring pirates known as the Northern Bayfolk had founded a vast maritime empire: the North Sea Empire.

It had united every region along the shores of the North Sea, reducing even that immense expanse of water to an inland sea within its borders. The Channel Islands to the east, the Evernight Peninsula to the west, and broad stretches of the East Coast had all belonged to it.

But its glory had been brief. It had never managed to manifest a supreme Imperial Crown.

Afterward, the descendants of the Bayfolk had splintered once more. The common ancestors of Houses Ravenshaw and Ashcombe had formed one branch. Those who had gathered at Iron Anchor Bay and returned to their old trade formed another. Still more had scattered across the Old Continent, even founding several countries.

To Julian, this ancient harbor, surviving from the days of the North Sea Empire, was an ancestral home a thousand years removed. Its familiarity seemed rooted in his bones.

Old Peter came to lean against the bulwark beside him, drawing on his beechwood pipe. He exhaled a long smoke ring, his gaze distant.