The fog of Plymouth hung low over Sutton Harbour in the autumn of 1572, thick enough to swallow the masts of ships whole and turn the lanterns along the quay into smudges of pale gold. It was the kind of fog that bred secrets—the kind that slipped down cobblestone alleys, seeped through the cracks of tavern doors, and cloaked men with knives in their belts and treason in their pockets. For three days the mist had clung to the Devon coast, holding the port in a damp, breathless hush. Ships rode at anchor, their sails furled, their crews idle; merchants grumbled over delayed cargoes, and the town watch patrolled the wharves with halberds on their shoulders, their footsteps muffled, their eyes straining to see more than three feet ahead.
To the men of the sea, this was nothing new. Plymouth had always been a town of waiting and weather, of tide and treachery. It was the gate through which England's boldest sailors passed on their way to the New World—men like Francis Drake, who had sailed from this very harbour two years prior to harry Spanish galleons in the West Indies, and who was even now preparing a second voyage that would carry him into the Pacific itself. The air hummed with the hunger for gold and glory, with the quiet fury of a nation that dared to challenge the might of Catholic Spain. Privateer commissions signed by the Queen's own hand hung in the cabins of a hundred ships; every man who could hoist a sail dreamed of returning with a hold full of silver and a name that would be spoken in taverns from London to Lisbon.
In the back corner of The Salty Dog, a tavern wedged between a rope-maker's shop and a chandlery, Edmund Voss sat with a tankard of ale untouched before him, and watched.
He was two-and-twenty years old, lean and broad-shouldered, with the sun-browned skin of a man who had spent half his life at sea. His hair was the colour of dark oak, cut short against the wind, and his eyes were a sharp, piercing grey—the colour of storm clouds over the Atlantic. There was nothing remarkable about him at first glance; he wore the plain wool tunic and oilskin breeches of any common sailor, his knife sheathed at his hip, his calloused hands resting easy on the table. But to look closer was to notice the stillness of him, the way his head tilted just so when a door creaked open, the way his gaze missed nothing: the cut of a man's coat, the weight of a purse at a belt, the tremor in a hand that spoke of too much drink—or too much fear.
He was first mate of the Silver Falcon, a fast, narrow brigantine of eighty tons, armed with twelve guns and a letter of marque that made her legal in the eyes of the English Crown and pirate in the eyes of Spain. Captain Henry Voss, the man who had raised him from a boy of seven, commanded her. They were due to sail for the Caribbean at first light, with a cargo of trade goods and a set of charts that marked a hidden bay on the coast of Darien, where Spanish treasure galleons were said to anchor to repair their hulls before making the run back to Seville.
Three men had entered the tavern ten minutes prior, and Edmund had not taken his eyes off them since.
They sat at a table near the fire, their heads bent low, their cloaks pulled up against the cold. But it was not the cold that made them hide their faces. Their boots were tooled leather, not the rough sea-boots of Plymouth sailors; their cloaks were dyed a deep, rich black, the kind of wool that came from Castile. One of them kept his hand inside his coat, his elbow tucked tight to his side, as if he were cradling something heavy. A pistol, Edmund thought. Or a stiletto.
He had heard Spanish spoken in the town before—merchants, prisoners of war, the occasional priest. But these men did not move like merchants. They moved like men who were used to watching their backs, who knew how to sit with their backs to a wall and their eyes on every exit. They had come in at separate times, by separate doors, and yet they had gravitated to the same table without a word. That was the trick of it. Sailors came in pairs, or in loud, laughing crowds. Men on the business of killing came alone, and found each other in the dark.
Edmund leaned back in his chair, and let his eyelids droop, as if he were half-asleep over his ale. He let his breathing slow, his body go loose and lazy, the picture of a sailor with nothing on his mind but his next drink. But his ears were sharp, picking out the low murmur of their voices over the crackle of the fire and the slurred singing of a group of fishermen in the corner.
He did not catch every word. Their Spanish was fast, low, thick with a Castilian lilt. But he caught enough.
…Voss…
…tonight, when the fog is thickest…
…the charts. The admiral wants the charts. No witnesses.
…the boy, too? The first mate?
…the admiral says leave no loose ends. The woman as well, if she can be found.
Edmund's fingers tightened on the edge of the table, just for a heartbeat. Then they relaxed again.
The admiral. There was only one Spanish admiral whose name carried weight in these waters: Diego de Santander, the Iron Hand of the Atlantic. Commander of the Spanish West Indies Fleet, the man who had hanged every English privateer he had ever captured, whose galleons patrolled the Caribbean like wolves, whose name was spoken in Plymouth taverns with a mixture of hatred and respect. He was the most feared man on the ocean. And he was interested in the Silver Falcon.
Interested enough to send assassins into the heart of Plymouth.
Edmund did not panic. Panic was for men who died with their mouths open. He thought, fast and clear, the way he always did when a storm hit or a prize ship hove into view.
There were three of them. Three armed men, probably trained. He was alone. The tavern keeper was a fat old man with a bad leg, the fishermen were too drunk to stand, and the town watch was half a mile away on the other side of the harbour. If he confronted them now, out in the open, one of them would get a blade in him before he could draw his knife. And even if he won, the noise would bring the watch down on him, and they would miss the tide. The voyage would be delayed. Santander would have more time to prepare.
No. He needed them off balance. He needed chaos.
He glanced down at the tankard in front of him, then at the lantern hanging from the beam above the Spaniards' table. A slow, thin smile touched the corner of his mouth.
He stood up, slow and unsteady, like a man who had drunk too much. He swayed on his feet, bumped into the edge of a table, slurred an apology to the fisherman sitting there. Then he began to weave his way across the room, toward the bar, his path taking him directly past the Spaniards' table.
He was three feet away when his foot "slipped" on a puddle of spilled ale.
He stumbled forward, his arm flailing out. His hand struck the table hard. Mugs clattered. The tankard of wine the Spaniards had been drinking went flying, splashing across the table, soaking their cloaks.
The man nearest him jumped to his feet, his hand flying to his coat. "Madre de Dios—"
"Beg pardon, sir," Edmund slurred, his voice thick and stupid, his eyes glazed. "Slippery floor, that. Terrible sorry—"
The man snarled, and drew back his fist.
That was exactly what Edmund wanted.
He let the fist come, turning his head at the last second so the blow grazed his cheek. Then he staggered backward, crying out, and threw himself into the group of fishermen by the fire.
"These damned foreigners!" he shouted, loud enough for every soul in the tavern to hear. "They hit me! Called me a dog of an Englishman!"
The room went quiet. Then it exploded.
Plymouth men did not take kindly to Spaniards, and they took even less kindly to being called dogs. The fishermen were on their feet in an instant, stools scraping the floor, their fists clenched. The tavern keeper roared and came around the bar with a club in his hand. Shouts went up. A chair went flying. A lantern swayed from the ceiling, casting wild, dancing shadows across the walls.
In the middle of it all, Edmund vanished.
He slipped through the chaos like a shadow, ducking under a swinging fist, stepping over a fallen stool. He was out the back door of the tavern before the Spaniards even realized he was gone. The alley outside was dark, the fog thick as wool. He pulled his knife from its sheath, the blade cold and familiar in his hand, and pressed himself against the wall beside the door.
He did not have long to wait.
The first Spaniard came bursting out thirty seconds later, coughing and swearing, his cloak torn. He was reaching for the pistol in his coat when Edmund stepped up behind him, and brought the hilt of his knife down hard on the back of his man's head.
The man crumpled without a sound.
The second one was right behind him. He saw his companion fall, and froze. He had time to draw his stiletto, to let out a sharp curse, but Edmund was already moving. He drove the man's wrist back against the brick wall, hard. The knife clattered to the ground. Then he drove his knee into the man's stomach, and when the man doubled over, he struck him across the jaw with his fist.
The second man joined the first in the mud.
The third man never came out the back door. He was smarter than the other two. He had gone out the front, into the crowd, and vanished into the fog.
Edmund swore, soft and sharp. One got away. That was bad. It meant Santander's men would know their plot had been uncovered. It meant they would move faster.
But there was no time to dwell on it. He knelt, and searched the two unconscious men.
He found what he was looking for in the first man's coat: a folded piece of parchment, sealed with wax. He broke the seal, and held it up to the faint light coming through the tavern window. It was a note, written in neat, sharp Spanish script.
Remove Voss and retrieve the Darien charts. The admiral will not suffer this venture to proceed. The boy and the woman are to be eliminated as well. Leave no trace. Santander sends his regards.
Edmund's jaw tightened. The woman. They meant his mother.
Isabella Voss. She lived in a small cottage on the edge of town, a mile from the harbour. She had come to England with Henry nearly twenty years ago, a refugee from the Spanish Netherlands, a woman of noble birth who had lost everything to the Inquisition. She was the softest, quietest thing Edmund had ever known, with dark hair threaded with silver and eyes the same deep brown as his own. He loved her more than he loved the sea, more than he loved gold, more than he loved his own life. The thought of those men touching her made his blood run cold.
He stuffed the note into his pocket, and stood up. He dragged the two unconscious men into the shadow of a rain barrel, tying their hands and feet with rope he took from a nearby cart. They would be found come morning. By then, he would be gone.
He ran first to the harbour, to the Silver Falcon. The ship was riding at anchor, her sails furled, her skeleton crew dozing on deck. He found Tom, the boatswain, a weathered old sailor with a wooden leg and a scar across his face, sharpening his knife in the forecastle.
"Tom," he said, sharp and quiet. "Wake the crew. Get everything ready. We sail tonight."
Tom blinked. "Tonight? But Captain said first light—"
"Plans change. We've got Spaniards in town, and they mean to kill the captain and take our charts. One got away. He'll be back with more before dawn. We need to be gone before then. Wake the men. Hoist the topsails. Have the longboat ready to bring the captain and my mother aboard."
Tom did not argue. He had sailed with Edmund for ten years. He knew that when the boy spoke like that, there was no time for questions. He nodded, and turned to rouse the crew.
Edmund did not wait. He ran back up the wharf, through the fog, toward the cottage on the hill. The streets were empty, the town asleep. His boots hit the cobblestones hard, his breath coming fast. He thought of his mother, sitting by the fire, reading her book, unaware of the danger creeping toward her. He thought of Santander, the Iron Admiral, sitting in his palace in Seville, giving the order to kill her. He thought of the note. The woman as well.
Why? Why would the most powerful admiral in Spain care about a quiet woman living in a cottage in Plymouth? Why would he care about Edmund?
It was a question he had no answer for. But it sat in his chest, cold and heavy, as he ran.
The cottage was dark when he reached it, save for a single candle glowing in the front window. He did not knock. He slipped around the back, tested the kitchen door, found it unlocked, and stepped inside quiet as a cat.
His mother was sitting in her chair by the hearth, her hands folded in her lap, waiting for him.
She had heard him coming. She always did.
"Edmund," she said, and smiled. Her voice was soft, with the faint trace of an accent that never went away. "You are early. I did not expect you until morning."
She was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Even now, at forty and more, with lines around her eyes and grey at her temples, she had a grace about her, a quiet dignity that made her seem like a queen in exile. She wore a simple blue wool dress, her hair pulled back in a net, a silver locket around her throat—the only thing she had brought with her from Spain.
He knelt down beside her chair, and took her hand. Her hand was small and cold in his.
"Mother," he said. "We have to leave. Tonight. There are Spanish agents in town. They mean to harm you."
Her smile faded. But she did not look surprised. There was a quiet sadness in her eyes, as if she had been waiting for this day for a very long time.
"Diego," she said, very softly.
Edmund froze. "You know him? You know Santander?"
She did not answer right away. She looked into the fire, the flames dancing in her eyes. For a long moment, she said nothing. Then she sighed, and reached up to touch the locket around her throat.
"I knew him," she said. "A long time ago. Before you were born."
Edmund's breath caught. He had never known his father. Henry Voss had raised him as his own, but he had never claimed to be his blood. His mother had never spoken of the man who was. Not once, in all his twenty-two years.
"Mother," he said, his voice quieter now. "Who was he? My father?"
She looked at him then, and there was so much pain in her eyes that he almost wished he had not asked.
"Not now, my love," she said. She unclasped the locket from around her throat, and pressed it into his hand. It was warm from her skin. "Not yet. There will be time. When you are ready. When you have no choice but to know."
He closed his fingers around the locket. It was small, silver, shaped like a falcon in flight. The metal was worn smooth from years of being touched.
"Do not open it until you have to," she said. "Until you are faced with a choice you cannot make, or a truth you cannot bear. Until the sea has shown you what you are made of. Promise me."
He wanted to argue. He wanted to demand answers. But he looked at her face, and he saw the fear there, and the sorrow, and he could not do it.
"I promise," he said.
She leaned forward, and kissed his forehead. Her lips were soft and cool.
"Good," she said. "Now. Let me get my things."
She stood up, and went to the cupboard, and took down a small wooden chest. She did not take much: a change of clothes, her prayer book, a small bag of coins. She was a woman who had learned to travel light, who knew that everything you loved could be taken away in an instant.
Edmund stood by the fire, turning the locket over and over in his hand. A thousand questions swirled in his head. Who was his father? Why had his mother never told him? What did Diego de Santander have to do with any of it? Why would the most powerful man in the Spanish Navy send assassins after a quiet woman and a privateer's first mate?
But there was no time for answers. There was only time to run.
They left the cottage ten minutes later, his mother wrapped in a thick wool cloak, her hand tucked into his arm. The fog was thicker now, so thick they could barely see the path in front of them. The town was still quiet, still asleep. But Edmund could feel it, in his bones: danger was out there, moving through the mist, closing in. The third Spaniard was still at large. He would have raised the alarm by now. There would be more men. More knives.
They made it down to the harbour without incident. The Silver Falcon was lit up like a firefly in the fog, her sails half-hoisted, her crew moving fast and quiet on deck. The longboat was waiting at the foot of the quay, rowed by two strong sailors. Henry Voss was standing in the stern, his face grim, his cutlass at his hip. He was a big man, broad and bearded, with a scar across his left cheek and a voice like gravel. He had been a sailor for forty years, and he had the look of a man who had seen every kind of trouble the sea could throw at him.
"Edmund," he said, when they reached the boat. "You were right. Two of my men found a group of Spaniards skulking near the warehouse. Had a fight. Killed one, the rest ran. They meant to burn the ship."
Edmund helped his mother into the boat, and climbed in after her. "They had orders from Santander. He wants the Darien charts. And he wanted us dead. All of us."
Henry's jaw set. "Santander. That devil. What business does he have with a little brigantine like ours?"
"I don't know," Edmund said. "But he's been looking for my mother. For a long time, I think."
Henry glanced at Isabella. She said nothing. She just sat in the stern of the boat, her hands folded in her lap, her face pale and still, staring out into the fog. Henry's expression softened, just a little. He had loved her for twenty years, in his quiet, gruff way. Edmund had always known that.
"Cast off," Henry said. "Let's get aboard. We'll put out to sea before they know we're gone."
The sailors bent to their oars. The longboat glided away from the quay, out into the harbour. The fog swallowed the shore behind them, until there was nothing left but dark water and the faint glow of the Silver Falcon's lanterns bobbing up ahead.
Edmund sat beside his mother, the silver locket heavy in his pocket. He could feel it, burning a hole through the cloth, a secret waiting to be opened. He thought of the note. Leave no loose ends. He thought of Diego de Santander, the Iron Admiral, a man he had never met, who wanted him dead.
And somewhere, deep in his chest, a cold, sharp curiosity took root. Who was this man? Why did his name make his mother's hands shake? Why did the sound of it make his own blood run faster, as if he had heard it before, in a dream?
They reached the ship, and climbed the rope ladder up to the deck. The crew was ready. The anchor was being hauled up, the sails filling with the faint, cold wind that was beginning to blow out of the west. The fog was starting to lift, just a little, enough to see the dark shape of the land fading behind them.
"All hands on deck!" Henry shouted, from the quarterdeck. "Set the main topsails! Heave to the southwest! We make for open sea!"
The crew shouted back, and moved to their stations. The Silver Falcon heeled gently to the wind, and began to move. The water hissed along her hull. The lights of Plymouth grew smaller and smaller, until they vanished entirely into the mist.
Edmund stood at the bow, his hand resting on the rail, and stared out into the dark. The Atlantic stretched out before him, endless and black, full of treasure and danger and death. He was going to the Caribbean. He was going to hunt Spanish galleons. He was going to face Diego de Santander.
And somewhere, along the way, he was going to find out who he really was.
He pulled the silver locket from his pocket, and held it up to the moonlight. The falcon on its surface seemed to glow, silver against the dark. He thought of his mother, down in the cabin, quiet and sad. He thought of the father he had never known. He thought of the admiral who wanted him dead.
The wind picked up, and the ship picked up speed. The spray hit his face, cold and sharp. He smiled, a thin, sharp smile, full of grit and hunger and courage.
Let Santander come. Let the sea throw whatever it had at him. He was Edmund Voss. He was the first mate of the Silver Falcon. He had outrun storms and outfought pirates and outwitted men twice his age. He was not afraid.
Somewhere far behind them, in the fog-shrouded harbour, a bell began to ring. Slow and deep, the alarm bell of the town watch. They had found the two men in the alley. They had discovered the ship was gone.
But it was too late.
The Silver Falcon was already gone, racing out into the open Atlantic, carrying three people with a secret so old and so heavy it would change the course of all their lives. And far to the south, in a stone palace in Seville, Diego de Santander sat at his desk, and sharpened his sword, and waited for the son he had never known to come to him.
The voyage had begun.