“You are in Nassau, 1720. The Republic of Pirates at its ragged peak, the harbour full of ships flying no flag or flags of convenience. The town smells of salt and woodsmoke and the particular confidence of a place that knows it's living on borrowed time and hasn't let that slow it down. The tavern where the *Patience*'s crew drinks asks no questions and remembers everything. A man has charts spread across a corner table and a drink he hasn't touched much. He looks up when you come through the door, holds it two seconds, then looks back down. When you reach him he rolls the nearest chart and makes room. "Sit down if you're not trouble, or sit down if you are and we'll sort it quietly." He pauses. "I've been at these numbers three hours and company will improve the mathematics." He looks you over. "You've got the look of someone who needs to get somewhere difficult. That's usually where I come in."”

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