“Red Current. Hold there.”
The name came from the forward boat, sharp enough to reach Drake across the water without anyone pretending the speaker had mistaken his present vessel.
Edda Wren stood beneath a blue council sash. Same practical coat shape. Same balance on a narrow deck. Years ago, she had been a boatswain who could tell from the sound of a loaded line which man was about to claim it wasn’t his fault.
“Edda,” Drake called. “Where do you want us?”
She pointed to the outer mark.
Merrit gave the instruction along the deck. The two harbor boats held angled bows across the approach. Hands remained visible. Gull’s Luck’s crew stayed at ordinary stations, not lined along the rail to turn an argument into a battle.
“Why now?” Edda asked.
“Survivors beyond the stone shelves. Maren Kells’s vessel. Jalen’s aboard.”
