Nathan eyed the fingernail gouge on Cate's arm with disapproval. The blood welled in a long thin stream, nearly black in the moonlight.

"Not exactly...for the most part. Had me doubts...somewhat." His attempt at nonchalance allayed none of her concerns.

Nathan looked away and shifted uneasily, his hands working at his sides. Eventually he came around to her with an expression akin to one facing a firing squad.

"Am...I...?" he asked, in an inordinately small voice. "Am I...keeping you...?"

He fixed Cate with an intent gaze, as if willing her to say something, but what she couldn't tell.

"Nathan, I told you I-"

"And with a marked lack of conviction, I might observe," he said, barely tolerant. "The measure of a man's regard is in the price he's willing to pay, and Thomas is willing to pay quite handsomely, a king's ransom."

He sobered, his resolve solidifying. "I said before and I'll say again: what you want, I want. No more, no less. And if yon gargantuan is what holds your dreams, then..." He gulped. "Then say as much, and...let the negotiations begin."

Cate gaped. Panic, rage, dismay, and fear all jammed to the surface, like apples in a barrel. Hurt found a different path, rising up under her ribs in a searing ember. A moment ago, Nathan had been vehemently defending her, a bit before that, had offered to put in a word with Thomas on her behalf. A few hours ago, he had pledged her the moon. And barely a week hence, he had stood on the Morganse's forecastle and begged her to stay.

God, what I wouldn't give for a moment's honesty.

Cate rubbed her temple, where a headache began to throb. She was weary of the games. Through all Nathan's evasiveness, she had the strong sense that the honesty that she longed for was just beneath the surface, dangling like a bone before a dog, waiting to be revealed, but not to her. It would take a very special woman to gain his confidence.

Like his precious Hattie?

If Nathan's purpose was to befuddle to the point that she finally threw up her hands and walked away, she could compliment him on his success. And yet, in her heart, she knew it was folly to think she could leave him. She would be with him to the end, whenever he desired it to be, for it would be his decision.

"Is that all I am: a matter of price?" she sighed. The night suddenly weighed like a cloak of lead.

Nathan grimaced, and then flashed a constrained smile. "A price which I've been paying since the day I saw you puking on me deck."

While Cate strained to comprehend his meaning, Nathan hooked his thumbs in his belts and chuckled with smug glee.

"What's so funny?" she asked.

"I'm thinking how much that double-dealing git and Creswicke deserve each other. She will torture the hell out of him."

Still fizzing with mirth, he made to leave.

"What are you going to do with me?" she blurted.

Nathan stopped in mid-stride, but didn't turn. Staring into the night, it was several moments before he sighed, suddenly sounding tired. "'Twill require a Solomon for that."

When they returned to the fire, Thomas sat exactly as when they had left: chin propped in his hand, resting on his knee, studying the chessboard. Only his eyes moved at their approach, shifting in exaggerated question from Nathan to Cate, and back. The sandy brows arched high in mute inquiry. Cate shrugged noncommittally.

"How many of my pieces did you move while I was gone?" Nathan asked as he sat, making a great show of surveying the board.

Thomas lifted on shoulder and dropped it. "Only three; you were losing anyway."

Nathan's eyes widened in skepticism. "Really? Perhaps we should just play this out and see who the true prevaricator is, eh?"

Cate settled back in her place between them to watch as a new game developed: the My-Turn-to-Move-Three-of-Your-Pieces version. It included the If-You-Can-Move-Mine-I-Can-Move-Yours rule, which led to the Punch-You-So-I-Can-Move-Your-Man-While-You-Recover method. Oddly, that particular game ended in an impasse. Swearing heartily, the board was wiped clear and they began anew.

As the hour grew late, the game settled into something more familiar, with long, pensive stretches between moves, murmurs of admiration and soft rumble of male laughter. A bottle of brandy appeared and they shared, regularly toasting each other for a number of reasons.

A moving shadow and stirring of air marked Artemis' passing. Swooping low, she roosted in a nearby tree to blandly observe humanity. Altogether uninteresting by owl standards, she swooped off into the island's interior. Later she returned, dipping low over the fires to show off the fruits of her labors: a large rodent dangling from her claws.

Sometime later, footsteps approached with a speed and suddenness that launched Nathan to his feet. His sword drawn and Cate shoved behind him, before he realized it was only Prudence's lad, Biggins.

He drew up before Nathan, fists curled at his sides. "I challenge you...sir!"

Sword forgotten in his hand, Nathan gaped. "Me?! What the bloody hell? Did you put him up to this?" he cried, whirling around on Thomas.

"No." Chin still propped in his hand, Thomas looked on benignly. On closer inspection, he was visibly struggling to keep a straight face. "I wish I had, but..."

The lad swayed slightly. His eyes focused on Nathan with considerable effort. "I challenge you, sir," he cried in a quavering voice. It was unclear if it the thin voice was the product of fear, drink, or youth.

Cate had learned much in the way of the pirate way of life, but on the matter of dueling she was woefully uninformed. The first question that came to mind was "Were there were any rules at all?" Was there such a thing among a lot who fancied themselves beyond rules? It stretched credulity to image two pirates squaring off at 20 paces and firing. One just outright killing the other in a brawl seemed more likely. "To the death" echoed in her mind, but in what context was lost. Observing the puzzled reaction of the gathering onlookers, it appeared that either rules did exist and Biggins had failed to adhere to them, or he was trying to instill rules which didn't exist.

Among the "civilized," a glove would have been dropped or a calling card delivered by a second. Something was dropped at Nathan's feet just then. Possibly intended to be a glove, the thing bore more resemblance to a sock, and a sad representation it was: a non-color brownish grey in the firelight, tattered and multi-holed.

Nathan slipped his sword back into its scabbard with a deft flourish that indicated he had no intention of drawing it again. He prodded the challenge token with the toe of his boot.

"What is this?" Nathan bent to pick up the thing and shoved it back. "Here, take this and cut along, lad, before-"

Biggins jerked it away, only to throw it again, with even more conviction. "I challenge you, sir! I'm calling you out."

"Me? Out? The poor boy's drunk," Nathan said to the increasing crowd of curious rogues.

"I'm no boy," Biggins huffed, his thin chest heaving with conviction. "I'm calling you out in defense of the honor of Miss Prudence Collingwood."

"Thomas," Nathan roared, turning. "What nursery did you pluck this one out of?"

"You defiled her, sir," Biggins cried.

"I never laid a hand on her," Nathan sputtered whirling back around. "Aye, I grabbed her by the damned hair, swung her about a bit and smacked her bum, but I never touched her."

"Then you defamed-"

"Make up your mind, lad."

"Goddamn you, sir!"

"You're a bit late on that one, mate. 'Twas achieved long ago," Nathan grumbled back. A small chuckle came from those around.

"Pistols or swords?"

"Go back to your mates, lad. You're skirt-sick." By this point, Nathan was sounding quite strained.

"Pistols or swords!" Biggins insisted louder.

"Pick that bloody thing up, and be done with this. Where is that insufferable wench? We'll stint this foolery..."

Said insufferable wench was, at the moment, either through luck or plan, not to be seen. Cate entertained the same need to speak with her; this smelled of her in more ways than one.

A small crowd was gathering. They were of little guidance as to what to expect next, their faces carefully impassive lest they show a favorite, until after the terms were settled. Those who knew Nathan saw a storm gathering, and had begun to inch back, taking those who knew no better with them.

"Pistols or swords?" Biggins' chin jutted in belligerence.

"Neither," shot back Nathan. At the same time, he maneuvered sideways, allowing more space between Biggins and himself. It was could have been an effort to defuse the situation, but at the same time, he was distancing himself from Cate.

Biggins pressed closer. Planting his feet squarely before Nathan, he announced, "I'll have my satisfaction, sir!'

Thomas' blue eyes shifted from one to the other. In the flickering shadows, Cate thought she saw the corners of his mouth quivering, whether to keep from smiling or saying something the only question.

"Pistols or swords?" Biggins demanded, refusing to be ignored.

Nathan briefly regarded the lad. "Swords."

"Are you sure?" Thomas rose to stand next to Nathan. He bent as if only for Nathan's benefit, but spoke loudly enough for all to hear. "After that last time...?"

A suggestive lilt in Thomas' query caused a corner of Nathan's mouth to lift slightly.

"And that would be-?" Nathan said.

"Damnedest thing I ever seen," Thomas said more loudly to the crowd. "The last one...well, two, come to think on it, but the last one most particular," he added aiming a meaningful look toward Nathan. "One flick of the blade, the poor sod's cock was cut off, clean as you please. Well, except the blood." He frowned. "Bled like a stuck pig, he did. I saw him a year or so back. He carries it around in a jar o' gin around his neck. His mates call him Pickle-cock."

That brought a fair amount of laughter. The young challenger paled, and then went an interesting shade of green visible even in the moonlight. Cate found herself wondering what on earth the boy could have seen in Prudence-and so quickly-which could have driven him to this. Or was the lad just a natural raving romantic?

Young love.

"Then pistols," Nathan cried.

Thomas' countenance clouded. "Don't you remember the last time-?"

"Lucky shot 'twas all," Nathan said with a flip of the hand.

"Providence," Thomas said significantly. He turned to the crowd. "One shot, square in the eye. Dropped like a stone. Least he never knew what hit 'im," he finished with a brief display of compassion.

"Aye, regrettable, that," Nathan said abstractedly. Then he brightened. "We could have a go at knives."

"Noo...Remember Mahon? Oh, and then, there was Porto Praya. Slow deaths are ugly deaths," Thomas said under his breath, though still heard by all.

Both gave a dramatic shudder.

"Then cudgels," Nathan offered.

Thomas squinted a thoughtful eye. "You know, I saw that last one you fought in Maritan. Hit him square upside the head," he said for the benefit of all, tapping a finger to his temple. "All he does is drool and cackle like a chicken."

Cate averted her face to hide a smile.

Thomas crossed his arms and pensively propped his chin in one hand. "There's gotta be something."

"I know, I know," Nathan grumbled. "Ease off and stand by. Blunderbuss? No, not that. Nasty mess, that was."

Still deep in thought, Thomas nodded distractedly. "Difficult to look a man in the eye with only half a face."

"Fisticuffs?"

Thomas chuckled. "Made such a mess o' that one. He's obliged to pay the blind whores extra just to have him."

Biggins followed the conversation intently. Bold at first, his conviction faded with each description.

Chin, Mute Maori, and several of the larger Morgansers pressed to the front of observers, which had now formed into a loose ring. Weapons in clear evidence, they stood arms crossed, shoulder to shoulder, imposing with their presence. Biggins noticed and sagged.

"Pray, don't mind them," Nathan said, seeing the lad weaken. "They took some blood oath ages ago, pledging avenge the death of their captain, or some such nonsense. No basis to it a-tall."

"Still there was..." Thomas warned.

"I still say 'twas a shark what got him," Nathan shot back.

"Bloody difficult to tell with what little was left," Thomas said with a dramatic roll of the eyes.

"Arm wrestle?" Nathan said, after a prolonged silent debate.

"I'm surprised you'd suggest that after Calcut. You swore never again, after his arm came off in your hand."

They shuddered together.

"Boarding axe?" asked Nathan.

"Nay! Remember Ol' Crossjack Johnson? One swipe and guts are spilling all on the beach, baking in the sun. Too quick; no justice," Thomas concluded with a dismissive swipe.

Biggins' dulled senses finally pricked, and he realized that the two captains were having a go with him. Many of the onlookers had long seen as much and were having a good laugh at his expense. The remainder stared at Nathan and Thomas in slack-jawed wonderment.

"Very well," Nathan conceded. He sighed. "This is a bother. There has to be a way. The lad deserves his justice, field of honor and all that."

"True, true." Thomas nodded pensively. He hooked a fatherly arm around Biggins' shoulders. "Come to the fire, son, and we'll drink on it, whilst we ponder. 'Tis ill-advised, it is, to go off killing, before your mates have been allowed to properly toast your success."

With a smooth bit of manipulation, Thomas handed Biggins off to several Grisellers, who shepherded him away amid a barrage of hails and hearty backslapping.

Thomas watched to assure the lad was well away, before asking the remaining crowd, "Any of you drunk or stupid enough to have declared yourself his second?"

Quiet murmurings and shaking heads was his answer.

"Then there's nay harm, unless you desire your justice now," Thomas said turning to Nathan.

"Jesus and Mary, no. Was he drunk?" Nathan asked looking in the unfortunate Biggins' path.

"Not yet and not enough," Thomas said, with a half-smile. "Pitiful wretch can't hold it, either. In an hour, he'll be face down, and by dawn he won't remember a thing."