🏴 [BLOODY ROSE — STATUS]

Hull Condition : Damaged, Repaired

Armament : 18 Broadside Cannons

Gunpowder Supply : 12 Casks

Provisions : 8 Days

Crew : 68 / 80

Fit for Duty : 53

Wounded, Light : 11

Wounded, Severe : 4

Morale : High

Loyalty : Steadfast

[SHIP PERKS]

The Rose’s Luck — When circumstances become impossible, this vessel gains a small chance to discover a technicality. The technicality is rarely safe. It is usually funny.

True Shot — This vessel’s guns find their mark more often than the powder load, range, or weather conditions would suggest. The mechanism is not available for review.

I continue to admire your unwavering commitment to treating long-term planning as something that happens to other people.

Disturbingly, this strategy has begun producing measurable results.

James lay on his bunk with his boots hanging over the edge, watching the cabin lamp sway twice before looking back at the number.

Five dead.

He’d known it already. Somewhere beneath the roar of cannon fire and the madness of battle, he’d felt the truth long before he found the courage to look at it.

Five men had been roaring about bloody red roses across this very deck less than a day ago.

Now they were a number in a display.

He let himself sit with that for exactly as long as it deserved. Any longer wouldn’t bring a single one of them back.

He scrubbed a hand across his face, found the cut on his cheek, hissed, then smiled anyway.

"’Could’ve been worse,’ the voice keeps tellin’ me."

His smile lingered another heartbeat.

"Funny how hearin’ that never makes worse feel any lighter."

He dismissed the display before it could attempt something resembling comfort.

It never managed the trick anyway.

Then he summoned the next screen, habit more than curiosity.

🏴 [JAMES CALLOWAY — STATUS]

Rank : Captain, Flying Gang

Reputation : Rising, Sharply

Influence : Modest, Growing

Fate Balance : 60

[TITLES]

Against All Reasonable Odds — You have an unsettling habit of surviving. This remains deeply unfair to your enemies.

Nosy Bastard — Other people’s problems have a way of becoming his own, with a consistency nobody finds flattering.

Between these two titles, I have abandoned all attempts to calculate your survival odds. The figures kept producing answers that embarrassed mathematics itself.

James let out a chuckle.

"Sinkin’ a Spanish escort’ll do that for a man’s reputation."

He snorted. "Funny thing. Nobody asks you to the dance, but burn the ballroom down and suddenly everyone remembers yer name."

His eyes drifted back to the title. A grin spread across his face.

"’Deeply unfair to my enemies.’"

He looked up at the ceiling.

"I’ll have that stitched onto a flag."

The crew will, in fact, suggest exactly that. I strongly advise against encouraging them.

"Too late."

James shifted until he found a position that didn’t pull at the splinters buried across his knuckles.

"I’m encouragin’ them already just by breathin’."

He stretched carefully.

"Right then."

A smile returned as he pointed lazily at the empty air. "Show me the shop, the whole thing this time. Not three shiny trinkets danglin’ in front of a poor bastard like bait."

There is considerably more shop than I have previously revealed.

I mention this only so your inevitable disappointment arrives fully informed rather than unexpectedly.

[FATE SHOP — CATEGORIES]

Intelligence : Information the world would normally charge far more to obtain.

Personnel : Specific individuals who might be persuaded to cross your path.

Providence : Goods, supplies, and improvements delivered when circumstances become inconvenient.

Whispers : Reputation adjusted where needed, without enduring the tedious process of earning it naturally.

Fateweaving : For those who find the rules governing this system inconvenient.

Your balance of sixty Fate places you among what most of this catalog considers the lower tier of serious customers.

I recommend reflecting upon that before proceeding.

James studied the categories like a man choosing which door to open, suspecting every one of them concealed trouble but unable to resist looking anyway.

"Providence."

James tipped his head toward the ceiling. "Let’s see what passes for help around here. The lads upstairs seem fully occupied losin’ the rum."

The menu unfolded into something resembling the inventory ledger of an experienced quartermaster.

Salted provisions.

Dried meat.

Fresh water by the cask.

Rum by the barrel.

Rope.

Tar.

Sailcloth.

Enough ordinary supplies to outfit an entire voyage.

James skimmed past most of it, none of that interested him.

Then two entries near the bottom caught his eye.

[PROVIDENCE — FEATURED]

Reinforced Hull

Iron-banded timber and seasoned oak fitted seamlessly into the Rose’s frame, as though they had always been there. She would endure considerably more punishment before noticing she was taking any.

Cost : 150 Fate

Heated Shot

Cannonballs delivered directly to the gun deck already glowing hot, drawn from a furnace that does not exist aboard this vessel. Fire follows wherever they land. Your enemies are unlikely to appreciate discovering this.

Cost : 140 Fate

James stared.

Not with idle curiosity.

With desire.

"Iron in her bones..."

He gave a low whistle.

"And shot that arrives already burnin’."

He slowly shook his head.

"Bloody hell."

He pictured the battle again.

"That would’ve made for a very different evenin’."

A grin tugged at his mouth.

"Thatch’s mortar wouldn’t have looked nearly so impressive beside that."

Then the thought came.

His smile faded.

He frowned at the swinging lamp.

"Hold on."

He pushed himself up a little. "If the lads go to sleep aboard the same old creakin’ ship and wake up sailin’ one with iron hidden in her ribs..."

He pointed toward the ceiling. "...and if the powder room suddenly starts handin’ out cannonballs that come pre-lit from a furnace that doesn’t exist..."

His brow lifted.

"...someone’s bound to notice."

He paused. "They’ll think I’ve sold my soul to somethin’ worse than you. Or that the ship’s haunted."

Another pause.

"Probably both."

Adjusting the perceptions of seventy-odd sailors who already attribute your survival to luck, providence, divine favor, and an entirely unverified personal acquaintance with several saints does not require meaningful effort.

They will observe the improvements. They will not perceive the impossibilities.

Frankly, this is among the easier aspects of my responsibilities.

I resent having to explain it.

"Damn."

James leaned back against the bulkhead.

"Fair enough."

His gaze drifted to the expensive upgrades one last time.

"A hundred and fifty Fate."

He sighed.

"For either one."

He spread his hands. "And here’s me sittin’ on sixty after robbin’ three treasure ships and sinkin’ a bunch of sloops."

He laughed.

As great as the hunt was, he still couldn’t afford anything from the expensive shelf in his own reward shop.

"Right."

He waved a hand dismissively.

"Enough starin’ at things I can’t have. Filter the list, sixty or less."

A grin returned.

"Let’s find out what a poor man’s fortune actually buys."