I write this now from the quiet safety of the Bourbon Monastery, where the loudest sound of the evening is the wind worrying at the shutters and Brother Nicholas worrying at the stew. The Atlantic roars a distant memory beyond the walls, and my days are filled with casks, prayer bells, and the steady drip of aging spirits.
It is peaceful compared to my usual, sailing the seas, weathering storms, and taking ships fat with all manner of bounty.

Which is precisely why I find myself thinking so often of the least peaceful night I ever spent in a Caribbean port town—with Commodore Redbeard, Christoph the Viking, and a wager worth two copper coins. Two copper. I have lost more in a single sneeze. At the time, however, it felt like destiny.

We had anchored just outside Port San Gerónimo. A town so sun-bleached and crooked it appeared to have been assembled by a drunk carpenter with a grudge against right angles. The Damned Promise rode low in the water behind us, fire darkened sails furled like folded wings. Across the harbor, my comrades aboard the Siren’s Wail were pretending to be humble seafaring merchants, which for pirates means you remove the skulls from the rigging and try not to threaten anyone before noon.

The ARC was in search of intelligence; new trade routes, heavily laden galleons, anything fat and slow and ill-advised. Redbeard had sent us ashore in pairs and trios to gather rumors. I had the misfortune and privilege of being paired with Redbeard himself and Christoph.

Redbeard was not a large man, but he carried himself like a cannonball; compact, purposeful, and always slightly on fire. His beard, more copper than red these days. Christoph, on the other hand, was enormous. He carried an axe, wore fur in climates that had never known snow, and pronounced “strategy” as “strrra-teh-gee” with terrifying enthusiasm.

We were halfway down the main street, gathering gossip from a fishmonger who seemed to know everything except how to keep fish from smelling like old boots, when we heard it, music. Fiddles, lutes, and three female voices in harmony so sweet it could have convinced a shark to reconsider its life choices. Christoph stopped walking. Redbeard tilted his head.

I, meanwhile, felt a very specific tightening in my chest.“Oh no,” I muttered.

Redbeard grinned. “You recognize that sound, do you, Abbot?”

“It cannot be,” I said.

Christoph squinted toward the town hall, where lantern light spilled from open windows. “There are singing women,” he observed, as if announcing a rare astronomical event.

A passing dockhand, eager to gossip, leaned in. “The Treasured Trio. Best bards in the Indies. Playing at the town hall tonight.”

My stomach performed a slow, treacherous roll. “The Treasured Trio?” I said, softly.

“Aye. Three of ’em. Travel together. Play together. Drink together. Cause trouble together.”

Redbeard turned very slowly toward me. I made a mistake. I hesitated. He saw everything in that hesitation.

“You know them.”

“I may,” I said carefully, “have once made the acquaintance of one of the trio.”

Christoph’s eyebrows shot upward so high they nearly merged with his hairline. “You fought her?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

Redbeard barked a laugh. “Which one?”

“The one with a shining pate, and skin a soft mahogany,” I said. “Sharp wit. Laugh like a silver bell. Name of Sulaa.”

“Ah,” Redbeard said. “And this was… what? A polite introduction over tea?”

I sighed. “It was a perfectly civilized evening involving music, rum, and mutual admiration.”

Christoph nodded solemnly. “So, you fought.”

Redbeard leaned closer. “Would she remember you?”

“Without question.”

“Without question?”

“She declared me,” I said with appropriate dignity, “the most interesting man she had met in three ports.”

Redbeard scratched his beard. “And how many ports had she been to?”

“That is beside the point.”

Redbeard’s eyes gleamed. “I’ll wager she doesn’t remember you.”

I stared at him. “The usual amount?”

“Our usual amount,” he said.

He and I settled disputes, wagers, and matters of profound emotional significance with two copper coins. It was tradition. It was sacred.

“She will remember me,” I said.

Christoph folded his arms. “I believe she will not. Women forget faces. Except mine. I am large.”

“You’re both fools,” I said. “You’re on.”

We shook on it. And thus, I doomed myself.

There remained one problem. We were wanted men. Redbeard had a bounty set by at least four Crowns. Christoph’s axe was recognizable from a regrettable incident involving a governor’s statue. And I, though protected somewhat by the Church as an abbot, still had my name posted on more than one tavern wall.
We would need to sneak in. Redbeard purchased three oversized hats from a bewildered fruit seller. Christoph stole a cloak from a laundry line. I borrowed a monocle from a retired clerk who believed me to be conducting “monastic research.” We were, in short, unconvincing.

Still, the town hall was crowded, and pirates; disguised or not, are rarely the strangest sight in a Caribbean port. We slipped inside.

The Treasure Trio stood on a small, raised stage beneath a tapestry depicting something that might once have been a lion. And there she was. Sulaa. Mahogany skin glowing in the lantern light. A flash of mischief in her eyes. Fingers dancing over the strings of her lute as if she were coaxing secrets from it. I felt absurdly confident.

“She will remember,” I whispered.

Redbeard smirked. “We shall see.”

They finished a bawdy song about a goose, a rooster, and an ass. Applause thundered. Redbeard nudged me forward. “Go on then, Abbot. Impress us.”

I approached the stage with what I believed to be roguish charm. “Sulaa,” I said smoothly.

She blinked at me. I smiled… Nothing.

“Port Royal,” I prompted. “Three years ago. The Broken Marlin Tavern.”

She tilted her head.

“I sang a duet with you,” I added. “Badly.”

Her eyes flickered with polite confusion. One of her companions leaned over. “Friend of yours?”

Sulaa studied my face with professional kindness. “I am so sorry,” she said gently. “Have we met?”

Behind me, I heard Redbeard’s shoulders shaking with silent laughter. Christoph whispered, far too loudly, “He is forgettable.”

I cleared my throat. “You may recall a discussion regarding the comparative merits of rum and whiskey?”

She brightened slightly. “Oh! You’re the priest!”

“I was not a priest.”

“You gave a blessing over the bar.”

“It was a toast.”

Her smile widened. “I remember now! You tripped over a stool.”

“That was sabotage.”

She looked genuinely apologetic. “I’m sorry. We meet so many sailors.”

Sailors. Not even pirates. Just sailors. I turned slowly. Redbeard held out his hand.

Two copper.

Christoph nodded sagely. “Forgettable.”

With the solemn dignity of a condemned man, I paid. Redbeard bit one of the coins and pocketed them both. “A pleasure doing business.”
“Come, Christoph,” he said. “Let us leave the Abbot to his… spiritual reflections.”

They exited, shoulders shaking. I remained, pride in tatters. The trio resumed playing. I retreated to a shadowed table, contemplating the fragility of memory and the price of arrogance. After their final song, the crowd thinned. Lanterns burned lower. Chairs scraped. I rose to leave.

“John.”

I froze.

Sulaa stood a few steps away, lute slung over her back.

“You do remember my name,” I said cautiously.

She smiled. “Of course I do.”

I blinked.

“But you said…”

“I said I meet many sailors.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You knew.”

She shrugged lightly. “You seemed so certain of yourself. I thought I’d test you.”

I stared at her. “You are cruel.”

“Only a little.”

“And Redbeard…”

“Deserves the win.”

“That is accurate.”

She stepped closer, close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in her eyes. “You were,” she said softly, “the most interesting man I met in three ports.”
“I recall.”

“And you still sing terribly?”

“Worse.”

“Good.”

Before I could formulate a dignified response, she leaned in and kissed me. Not a dramatic, tavern-silencing spectacle. Just warm, certain, and entirely unforgettable. When she pulled back, she grinned. “Still interesting.”

My composure, such as it was, evaporated.

“Redbeard owes me two copper,” I muttered.

“Does he?”

“No,” I sighed. “I owe him. And I suspect he will never let me forget it.”

She laughed, that same silver bell.

“Well,” she said, offering her hand, “perhaps we can make it worth the loss.”

I considered the monastery. The sea. The future. The quiet. Then I considered the present. “Two copper,” I said, “is a small price for good company.”
In the morning, I returned with an expression that caused Christoph to raise an eyebrow and Redbeard to scowl suspiciously.
“You look pleased,” Redbeard said.

“I slept well,” I replied.

Christoph sniffed. “He smells like lute polish.”

Redbeard narrowed his eyes. “She remembered, didn’t she?”

“Eventually.” His face fell.

“You lost,” I said.

“I did not.”

“You did.”

“You paid.”

“Yes.”

“But she remembered.”

“Yes.”

Redbeard paused, “Blast.”

Christoph clapped me on the shoulder hard enough to rearrange my spine. “Victory of the forgettable priest!”

“I was never a priest,” I protested.

“Close enough,” Redbeard muttered, reaching into his pocket.

He handed me two copper. I held them up to the sunlight. They gleamed. And though I, along with my crew mates have since taken many a treasure, I still keep those two coins. They sit in a small wooden box beside my desk here in the monastery. Brother Nicholas once asked why I smile at them. I told him they remind me of a lesson in humility. Which is true.

They also remind me that sometimes losing two copper is the best investment a man can make.

And that even pirates; abbots, Vikings, and red-bearded commodores alike, are occasionally, gloriously wrong.