The nets came up wrong.
Caspian knew it before the ropes went taut, straining against the capstan with a groan that spoke of weight beyond any shoal. The crew felt it too. Their shanty died mid-verse, replaced by grunts of exertion as they hauled, muscles straining, boots slipping on the salt-slick deck.
He should have helped. Instead, instinct kept him back, one hand resting on his rapier's pommel, watching as the nets broke the surface. The water churned white-capped and furious. Something thrashed beneath, powerful enough to send spray across the weathered planks.
Then he saw the scales—copper and pearl, green like deep water, blue like a drowned sky. Colors that had no earthly name.
The creature hit the deck with a wet, heavy sound. A torso, bare and human from the waist up, pale skin already reddening where the ropes bit deep. Long hair plastered across shoulders. And below, where legs should have been, that impossible tail, flexing and scraping against wood.
Caspian's breath stopped.
He had sailed from Port Royal to Madagascar, fought Spanish privateers, outrun hurricanes. He had listened to old salts spin their yarns in dockside taverns—tales of women with fish tails who lured men to their deaths.
He had never believed a word of it.
The mermaid turned her head, and he saw her face. For a heartbeat, he could only stare. Then she bared her teeth—sharp, too many, like a shark's—and hissed. The sound made his skin prickle.
"Get back!" One of the men leveled a boat hook at her. "It'll curse us!"
"Belay that." Caspian's voice cut through the panic. He stepped forward, putting himself between the crew and the tangled form. "She's caught, not attacking."
"Cap'n's right," Garrett said, though he looked uncertain. The first mate was already calculating, his merchant's mind turning. "This here's a prize worth more than ten holds full of spice."
Caspian's stomach turned as they replaced the fishing net with iron shackles meant for slaves. The mermaid fought, thrashing with strength that sent two men sprawling, but there were too many hands. They bore her down, clamping metal around her wrists, her tail.
She made a sound then that stopped his heart. Not a hiss, not a growl. A cry, high and keening, that might have been grief or rage or terror.
Then it cut off. She lay still, panting, her eyes fixed on nothing.
They dragged her toward the hatch, her tail scraping lines into the wood. At the opening, she turned her head. For just a second, their eyes met.
Hers were the color of storm-dark seas. And they held nothing but hatred.
The Serpent's Revenge was sound, and Caspian knew every plank of her. He had won her three years past in a card game—though 'won' was generous, given the previous owner had been too drunk to realize Caspian was cheating. She was built for speed, a sloop that could outrun anything heavier and outfight anything faster.
She had never carried a prisoner before.
They had cleared a space near the bilge, rigging a tarp to form a makeshift pool, seawater bucketed down to fill it. Crude, barely adequate, but enough to keep her wet.
Caspian descended at dusk. The guard straightened when he saw him.
"All quiet?"
"Not a sound, sir. Hasn't moved since we put her down there." Pieter's eyes flicked toward the darkness. "Unnatural."
"I'll take the watch."
"Sir?"
"You heard me. Go get some supper."
Alone, Caspian picked up the lamp and moved deeper. She lay half-submerged, tail curled beneath her, arms shackled to a ring bolt. Her head rested against the wood, hair spread like dark seaweed, eyes open but unfocused.
He crouched just beyond her reach.
"Can you understand me?"
No response. Not even a flicker.
He cycled through languages, then felt foolish. Why would she know the tongues of men?
Still, something made him continue. "My name is Caspian. Caspian Lark, though the Lark part's a bit of a joke, given I can't sing worth a damn." He smiled, though she did not react. "This is my ship. We're bound for Port Ember, about a week's sail."