The angers of pirate captains were as varied as the captains themselves. Some clothed their fury in self-righteousness, like James Flint of the Walrus, and some were savages, like Ned Low himself. Charles Vane showed little of his emotions during the best of times, and during the worst of times he was even more silent, more stony. But those who knew him best knew what to look for-- his eyes narrowed into slits, a certain vein that might throb at his temple, and the way his knuckles might turn white as he gripped the hilt of the sword at his hip.

When Charles emerged from his cabin after speaking to the lone man who returned without his partner or Anne, the cold fury that wrapped around him made every man jack on the deck of the Ranger step back in caution. With barely audible grunts, Vane selected a half dozen men to accompany him in a longboat back to shore.

Arriving at the brothel, Max was waiting a dozen steps from the door, entreating him to take his battle elsewhere. An icy glance in the petite woman's direction silenced her voice and the heavy pouch of coin that Charles dropped into Max's hands silenced her opposition. "Just try not to break too much furniture," she told him, her French-accented voice resigned but no longer upset. "It takes ages to get decent replacements."

With almost no regard for the idea that there might be rifles and pistols aimed at the street from within, Vane strode for the front door, kicked it open, and bellowed a single word.

"LOW!"