In the small harbor, every second lantern was lit.
There were eight in total.
Which meant there wasn't much light at all.
There weren't many ships either. The largest of them—a battered cog with tattered sails—rocked on the waves like a drunk who had completely forgotten the concept of dignity.
Lights burned in the stern windows, and a pirate flag fluttered from the mast.
Two and two made four.
The ship had to belong to Bluejam's pirates.
What puzzled me was why they hadn't sailed yet.
Several hours had passed since my conversation with Porchemy. More than enough time to leave port and disappear over the horizon.
Were they truly stupid enough not to believe I would come?
They hadn't lowered the gangplank. A few men wandered lazily across the deck.
I stopped at the pier.
"Listen, Porchemy. From where I stand, it looks like this—you fooled me, grabbed the money, and then came crawling back with a nice little fairy tale about some Ralagan to throw me off."
Nearly the entire Bluejam crew had gathered in the captain's cabin, discussing the news brought by their first mate.
Bluejam himself remained skeptical.
With every passing hour his patience wore thinner.
The only reason Porchemy was still breathing was the fact that the three crewmen who had been with him were now very thoroughly dead.
Bluejam wanted to know who had killed them. And he certainly didn't believe the story about an Emperor. What would the mighty Ralagan be doing on Goa?
And defending some thieving little brat at that?
Bluejam had never crossed the Red Line—the place where, according to pirate legends, Emeral D. Ralagan sailed the seas.
But he didn't need to.
Rumors traveled far.
And the rumor he liked best said she had been dragged alive into hell.
End of story.
That one he believed gladly. Creatures like Pebble or that so-called King belonged in hell anyway.
Besides, if you thought about it long enough, the very existence of Ralagan had been questioned for years.
Bluejam himself had heard pirates in the South Blue arguing about it shortly after the execution of Gold Roger.
Some said Pebble had never existed at all.
Just a figment of Roger's fevered imagination.
And why not?
Truth be told, only pirates from beyond the Red Line ever talked about her—and everyone knew those lunatics had their heads full of seawater.
Maybe old Roger had invented her entirely.
A convenient story to make his tales about conquering the Grand Line and the New World sound more believable.
The longer the captain thought about it, the more he leaned toward a very simple solution.
Shoot Porchemy.
Then recover the money from the little thieves—Sabo and Ace.
Oh yes. That was another problem entirely.
His crew had been robbed by two brats.
Bluejam felt an overwhelming urge to shoot the lot of them. A gang of useless drunkards and incompetent fools.
He let his gaze drift across the familiar collection of scarred faces and decided he would replace at least half the crew on the next voyage south.
Truth be told, he had grown rather fond of Goa.
Since docking in the small harbor, they had taken control of the entire Gray Terminal. They had even begun extending their influence into a few of the poorer districts of High Town—not to mention the three villages that now sent regular deliveries of food and taxes.
Under such circumstances, Bluejam had no intention of leaving.
And certainly not because of some ridiculous story about an Emperor.
Goa was exactly the kind of refuge he had spent years searching for.
He had no desire to remain a wandering outlaw forever.
From the position of captain he intended to build influence, gather the right kind of men, and secure enough power and wealth to live comfortably for the rest of his life.
His eyes drifted toward the pale face of his first mate.
Porchemy—normally a towering brute who treated the captain's word as absolute law—was now trembling like a frightened dog.
Until recently he had been ruthless, efficient. Orders carried out to the letter.
But after those two little brats robbed him—and somehow disposed of three crewmen—Porchemy looked… broken.
Bluejam had no use for broken men.
He preferred his first mate the way he used to be.
A shame.
Finding a replacement worthy of the position might take time, but Porchemy clearly wasn't good for anything anymore.
The shouting on deck tore Bluejam from his thoughts.
Someone had boarded the ship.
His men might be many things, but they did not scream like that without reason.
Bluejam began to rise from his chair.
Before he could give an order, Porchemy collapsed onto the floor.
Behind him, the cabin door creaked open with a long, dreadful scrape.
A woman stood in the doorway.
She wore a dark captain's coat. The golden buttons gleamed in the candlelight.
Bruno, the helmsman, drew his revolver.
The others followed suit.
For a moment Bluejam thought they might fire without waiting for his command and simply remove the intruder.
But no one pulled the trigger.
Instead, a sudden blast of icy air swept through the cabin.
Bluejam's legs nearly buckled beneath him.
Several of the men closest to the door dropped to the floorboards.
Porchemy whimpered and crawled toward the wall.
The rest swayed dangerously, their weapons slipping from their hands as they collapsed one by one.
The cabin suddenly felt suffocatingly tight.
Which made no sense at all.
The door stood open. Fresh air had entered with the woman.
The candles went out.
Darkness swallowed the room.
Only the moonlight spilling through the windows kept Bluejam from being completely blind.
Then the woman spoke.
Her voice was calm.
Cold.
"You're Bluejam?"