“They killed the last king they had!” said Captain Samson, who wasn’t going to waste a good rage. “My father fought against ’em at Trafalgar! Can’t have that, sir, not at any price. I can speak for the men on that, sir! We’ll break the record again, sir, coming and going!” He looked around for Sir Geoffrey, but the chairman had hurried down the gangplank and was fussing around two veiled figures who had gotten out of the coach.

“Are they… women?” asked the captain as they swept up onto the Cutty Wren’s deck and went past him as if he were of no importance whatsoever.

Mr. Black shook some snow off his own veil. “The smaller one is a maid, and I take it on trust that she is a woman. The tall one, whom your chairman is so eager to please, is a major stockholder in your shipping line and, more importantly, is also the mother of the heir. She is a lady indeed, although my limited experience of her suggests that she is also a mixture of the warrior queen Boadicea without the chariot, Catherine de’ Medici without the poisoned rings, and Attila the Hun without his wonderful sense of fun. Do not play cards with her, because she cheats like a Mississippi bustout dealer, keep sherry away from her, do everything she says, and we might all live.”

“Sharp tongue, eh?”

“Razor blade, Captain. On a lighter note, it is possible that en route we might catch up with the heir’s daughter, who thankfully was already well on the way to join her father before the plague struck. She is due to leave Cape Town today on the schooner Sweet Judy, bound for Port Mercia via Port Advent. The captain is Nathan Roberts. I believe you know him?”