The hand gripping his coat was the size of a ham.

James noticed that first. Size mattered in a fight, and this man had plenty of it.

He took in the rest just as quickly. The fellow was drunk enough that parts of his threats vanished before they reached the air. Slow-minded too, by the look of him. The kind who seized hold of a stupid idea and refused to let it go.

That didn’t make him harmless.

A slow man could still break bones. He just tended to reach the decision a moment later than expected.

"Easy now."

James made no move to pull free. Better to see if the problem solved itself. "You let go, I buy you a drink for the trouble, and we both walk away men who’ve had worse mornings than this one."

The grip tightened.

That answered the question.

"Nobody fucks with me and walks off whistlin’."

The man’s breath carried enough alcohol to make James wonder how he was still standing.

"Ye’re gonnae bleed for it."

"Aye, well."

James let out a slow breath. Some discussions only had one ending.

"Can’t say I didn’t offer ye the easy way."

I had expected this eventually. I will admit I am mildly impressed by the speed.

James ignored the observation for all of half a second.

"Fuck off."

Whether that was for the voice, the drunk, or both of them at once hardly mattered.

The man was still holding his coat. That was the immediate problem.

James already knew a solution.

He drove a fist into the man’s stomach.

By the time the punch landed, people had begun gathering. Nassau moved quickly when entertainment appeared. Men emerged from doorways and drifted off stoops, drawn by the promise of a free fight.

The large man folded around the blow with a grunt that reminded James of a broken door coming loose from its hinges. He’d been swaying slightly before. Now his entire body seemed to remember it had been drunk all along.

"That’s Bert, that is!" someone shouted from the growing crowd.

"He does this every day, watch yerselves!"

A bit too late for the warning.

Bert straightened with a roar and swung both fists in a broad arc.

The attack was powerful, but it came with enough warning that James had time to study it before it arrived. He ducked beneath the swing, stepped past the larger man, and drove a fist into Bert’s ribs as he moved.

Then he kept going.

Standing still in front of an angry man twice your size was rarely wise.

"Three shillings says he’s down inside a minute!"

"Down on who, the big one or the wee bastard dancin’ round him?"

"Hold still and fight like a man!" Bert bellowed. He swung again and struck nothing.

"I am fightin’ like a man!"

James circled, watching Bert’s feet as much as his hands. Feet told the truth. Hands lied.

"Ye’re just disappointed I’m not standin’ still long enough for you to land one."

Laughter rippled through the crowd.

Bert’s face darkened toward a shade James normally expected with fruit left too long in the sun.

The man changed tactics.

Instead of swinging wildly, he charged.

James reacted at once, but not quickly enough.

Bert lowered his head and crashed forward, wrapping an arm around James’s torso before he could completely evade the rush. The impact drove him back a step. Pain flared through his ribs.

Not a new pain.

The foremast had already done the damage. His ribs had simply chosen this moment to remind him of it.

He grunted and shifted his weight. Bert’s hold was strong, but his position wasn’t secure.

James twisted his hips, created a sliver of space, and brought an elbow down hard across the back of Bert’s neck.

The grip broke.

"He’s hurtin’ for that one, look at his face!"

"Five shillings he’s still standin’ in two minutes!"

"Ye’d lose that wager wi’ yer eyes shut, friend."

Bert stumbled backward. He shook his head once, trying to clear it, then came forward again.

Slower.

The charge and the missed swings had tired him. James could see it in the man’s breathing. The alcohol had been doing part of the work for him, holding him upright and angry.

Now exhaustion was beginning to collect interest on the debt.

Bert swung.

James let it pass.

Another followed.

He let that one go too.

The third came wider than the others.

James had already begun reading the fight. Bert’s rhythm was slowing. His recovery between attacks was taking longer. The openings were growing larger.

He stepped inside the swing and drove a fist straight into Bert’s jaw.

Pain shot through his hand.

His knuckles split against teeth that proved considerably sturdier than expected.

"Christ, that’s gonna need lookin’ at," James muttered.

He shook his hand once, trying to clear the sting.

Bert blinked at him.

The expression wasn’t anger.

It was confusion.

The man genuinely seemed to believe his morning should have gone better than this.

"Ye." The word emerged thick and uneven. "Ye keep movin’."

James nodded.

The observation was remarkably on point.

"That does tend to be the whole point of it."

Bert launched another punch.

The slowest yet.

By now the outcome was obvious.

The swing was little more than habit by now.

James stepped inside.

Distance vanished.

He planted his feet and delivered a short hook directly to the jaw.

The strike landed cleanly.

Whatever had been keeping Bert standing abandoned the effort.

One moment he was standing.

The next he collapsed against the nearby wall and slid into a heap. His eyes rolled upward. He remained conscious only in the broadest interpretation of the word.

For a heartbeat, the street went quiet.

Then the crowd erupted.

"Oh, he’s out!"

"Told ye the wee bastard would do it!"

"Pay up, ye cheating bastard!"

Coins changed hands immediately. Judging by the complaints, most of the wagers had gone poorly. One man laughed so hard he started coughing.

"Stay down a while."

James flexed the injured hand and winced.

"Ye’ll think more kindly of the whole business once ye’ve slept it off."

Bert was in no condition to offer disagreement.

James took that as acceptance.

He turned and continued down the street.

The crowd was already dispersing. Nassau had little patience for finished spectacles. The moment the outcome became clear, people returned to whatever they had been doing before.

A fight wasn’t memorable here.

It was merely another interruption.

The city carried on around him as though nothing had happened.

In truth, very little had.

His knuckles throbbed each time his arm swung. The split skin tightened whenever he closed his hand.

There wasn’t much more to learn from that.

He kept walking.

A more difficult conversation waited ahead.

Punching Bert had been simple.

Hornigold would be considerably less cooperative.

Nassau unfolded around him in all its contradictions. Half the buildings looked ready to collapse. The other half looked as though they’d already done so and simply refused to acknowledge it.

Men fought in the street. Merchants haggled. Sailors wandered between taverns with determined focus to drink as much as they could.

Nobody paid James much attention.

That suited him fine.

Eventually the streets grew busier.

That was where he found it.

The Drowned Rat stood near the top of the road.

James noticed the sign first.

An actual sign hanging above the door.

Nassau rarely bothered with such refinements.

That told him plenty about the establishment.

This was where captains drank when they wanted people to know they were captains.

This was where reputation was negotiated over rum instead of paperwork.

James put a hand on the door.

Then he went in.