The shipwright led the way beneath the quarterdeck with one hand raised to the beams, as though he had hung every timber himself and expected the captain to admire each nail. “Oak through the frame, seasoned near seven year, an’ no green heartwood hid beneath the planking. She’ll not twist in a hard sea, sir, nor groan herself loose when the guns begin their sermon.”

Captain Nathaniel Harrow ducked beneath a low brace and ran his gloved fingers along the inner hull. The wood was clean, pale, and close-fitted, with fresh pitch darkening the seams. “I should hope not, Mister Rusk. His Majesty has paid enough for her that she ought to sail through Judgment Day without springing a leak.”

“Aye, and likely could,” said Rusk, pleased rather than chastened. He moved on before the captain might test the claim, calling back over his shoulder as they descended toward the gun deck. “Thirty-eight guns when fully fitted, though she carries but twenty-six aboard at present. Enough to make a privateer repent his profession, yet light enough to give chase where a heavier ship would wallow.”

Sunlight entered in narrow shafts through the open gunports, striking rows of black iron cannon and the neatly coiled tackle beside them. Men from the yard still moved among the carriages, tightening bolts and checking breeching ropes while the harbour breathed beyond them in gull cries, hammer blows, and the creak of rigging. Harrow paused beside one of the twelve-pounders and gave the barrel an approving tap.

“She sits lower than I expected,” he said. “Not dangerously so, but low enough to offer less of herself to an enemy.”

“That were the thought,” Rusk replied. “Narrow waist, broad shoulder, sharp beneath the water. She’ll heel lively till the wind takes proper hold, but once she settles, sir, she’ll run like a thief who’s heard the watchman behind him.”

They passed into the officers’ quarters, where the stern windows looked out across the grey harbour. The captain’s cabin was not grand, but it was well made, with fitted cupboards, a chart table secured against rolling, and a narrow cot tucked behind a partition. Brass fittings gleamed in the afternoon light, and the whole chamber smelled of varnish, salt, and new canvas.

“No gilding,” Harrow observed.

“Waste of weight, sir. Gold leaf never won a broadside.”

“A sentiment I wish the Admiralty shared.”

Rusk laughed once, loudly, then remembered himself and disguised it as a cough. He showed the captain the magazine next, then the galley, the surgery, the cable tier, and the deep hold where barrels, shot, powder, and provisions would soon be packed in strict and joyless order. At every turn he offered some fresh boast concerning drainage, ventilation, reinforced knees, or the clever placing of pumps.

By the time they returned to the upper deck, Harrow had found little to criticize. The masts rose clean and straight above them, the standing rigging newly tarred, while sailors crossed the deck carrying coils of line and bundles of canvas. At the bow, a carved figure stood beneath a covering of sailcloth, its shape hidden from view.

“She is a fine vessel,” Harrow admitted. “Fast by her lines, strongly built, and armed well enough for her purpose. I begin to suspect the Admiralty has, by some clerical error, given me precisely what was promised.”

Rusk beamed. “We’ve not yet failed you, sir.”

“No,” Harrow said, looking toward the stern. “Though I remain uncertain regarding one matter.”

The shipwright’s smile weakened by a degree. “The paint?”

“The name.”

Rusk folded his arms and gazed upward as if the masts might offer assistance. “Ah.”

“Harbinger,” Harrow said. “A little ominous, do you not think?”

“Well, sir, she is meant to arrive ahead of trouble.”

“That is one interpretation. Another is that trouble follows directly behind her.”

Rusk scratched at his beard. “It were among the milder choices.”

Harrow turned slowly. “Milder?”

“Aye, sir. There were a list.”

The captain regarded him in silence until the shipwright produced a folded scrap of paper from his coat. “Black Omen were strongly favoured for a time. Drowned Saint had supporters among the younger lads, though I said it sounded unlucky for any ship expected to float. Then there were The Pale Visitor, Dead Reckoning, Certain Ruin, Widow’s Bell, and—”

“Enough,” Harrow said.

Rusk refolded the paper. “So Harbinger won.”

“I begin to see how.”

A gust crossed the deck, tugging at coats and setting the rigging to a low, expectant hum. Harrow looked along the vessel from stern to bow, past the guns, the fresh-cut rails, and the covered figurehead waiting to be revealed. Whatever name she bore, she was his now, and soon enough the sea would decide whether it suited her.

“Very well,” he said. “Harbinger she shall remain.”

Rusk brightened. “Knew you’d come round, sir.”

“I have not come round, Mister Rusk. I have merely discovered the alternatives.”

The shipwright nodded solemnly. “That’s how most good decisions are made, captain.”