The regional barons realized long ago there was money to be made in illicit activities, and though they didn’t exactly sanction smuggling, they did little to curb the activity here, content to skim profits off the top and line their pockets with gold. It remained that way for one reason: graft. Despite its proximity to Caspia and Mercir, Clockers Cove remained one of the least patrolled and regulated ports on Cygnar’s coast and was a haven for pirates and smugglers.
He spotted a few familiar ships-at least one of which he knew to be a corsair-but none on his list. Talion had anchored well out in the protected bay, which was standard practice for newly arriving merchantmen waiting for dockage, but Shae did so out of caution. Between the Cygnaran Navy and the Mercarian League, the list of ships he didn’t want to see had grown quite long. “Best news I’ve heard in a month.” In the fading evening light, Phinneus Shae continued to scan the cluttered waterfront and anchorage with his spyglass. “All secure, Captain!” Hawk snapped a salute, her face fixed in her typical perpetual scowl. The side paddle wheels churned in reverse briefly to ensure the anchor was placed, and then the wheels fell silent. At the call of eighty fathom followed by make fast!, she swung to settle into the flow of the incoming tide. The bow fell off to leeward as the cable paid out through the hawse hole.
Canvas flapped and fluttered overhead, the familiar cries of the topmen furling their charges a soothing song on the sultry breeze. THE SKY FADED TO THE HUE OF BLOOD as Talion’s anchor plunged into the depths of Clockers Cove Harbor.
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