Enjoy the opening pages of SAILS OF FORTUNE. CHAPTER 1 A Knife's Handiwork September 21, 1519 Standing still and alone on the last planks of San Lúcar’s dimly lit wharf, a darkly cloaked figure fastened his gaze upon the cluster of five ships anchored just offshore. The watcher eased a dagger from his belt as his eyes scanned the vessels with absorbed deliberation, studying them as if intent on memorizing every moon-shadowed block and yardarm, every ghostly line and casting. After several long moments he pulled his gaze lower, crouched down, and brushed his left hand across the graying board at his feet to smooth away loose sand and splinters. Shifting his position slightly to allow the lantern light to fall upon the cleared surface, he lowered his knife and worked its tip into the wood. With practiced skill he began to carve and chip until a letter appeared, and then another. Mindless of the passing minutes, he paid little heed to the muffled curses and jests that rose from the workers loading wine kegs at the other end of the pier. He did not pause as the knife brought forth words from the letters, and from the words, a pledge. Setting his knife aside, he ran his fingertips over one letter at a time, feeling every corner and curve, binding himself to their meaning with his touch. Only then did he still his hand and blow the shavings away. Taking up his knife and rising, he studied his handiwork. In letters an inch and a half in height, “For Honor. For Home,” stared back at him. Just once he uttered the words aloud. Then, with an acknowledging nod, Juan Sebastian de Elcano returned his knife to its sheath and let the quiet ships draw his attention once again. As always, the middle ship held his gaze the longest. If fate apportioned him no surprises, it would be upon the decks of the Concepción that he would serve as shipmaster for the next twenty-four months. But then, he thought, fate seldom failed to dole out generous shares of the unexpected to those who sailed distant seas, and providence had a good many hours in which to conjure disruption in the course of two whole years. He had sailed long enough to understand that any voyage could deliver hardship with such consistency that it became as familiar as the shadow of his own ship. But this voyage was like none ever ventured. The risks paralleled the vastness of the distance they were daring to cross. Yet any fears that burdened him were far outweighed by his eagerness to leave the harbor, to depart from the trouble that had haunted his efforts for so long, and to sail toward possibilities even greater than the dangers. After straining for thirteen months against the wills of time and men, Elcano stood at the verge of his journey’s beginning and gradually allowed his senses to overtake his thoughts. He absorbed the fluttering touch of the breeze against his cheeks, then the fishy odors of the wharf, and finally the soft whisperings of the river. The sound of a single footstep approaching from the far end of the pier suddenly sharpened his hearing. Without turning, he listened more deliberately and heard another soft footfall. Stiffening ever so slightly, he held his body in the same position. He suppressed his breathing, allowing not even the intake of his lungs to interfere with the straining of his ears. The feet advanced unhurriedly, the solid response of the boards beneath their tread revealing the fact that they bore a man of substantial weight. Whoever he was, he was progressing with uncommon slowness and apparent stealth. Elcano knew that he was the only one at this end of the wharf, the only possible target of the man drawing near. There had already been missing shipments, supply shortages, and simmering discontent among the men that had erupted into a near riot just days ago. An attack on the fleet’s officers would fit well with the Portuguese tactics to disrupt the voyage. Moving his shoulders as little as possible, Elcano reached up and loosened the acorn-shaped clasp at the neck of his cloak. He eased his hand lower, wrapping his fingers around the hilt of a sword he had wielded for fifteen years. At its touch, the nerves of his arm began to hum. As the oncoming footsteps drew nearer, his muscles tightened in readiness. The rest of his body betrayed nothing of his suspicion or his purpose as he gauged the diminishing distance between himself and the suspected assassin. Thirty feet. Twenty. Wait, he told himself. Not yet, not yet. When he knew that his assailant was no more than three strides away, Elcano suddenly whirled around. In one flowing movement he flung his cape aside, lifted his sword in a hissing, shoulder-high arc, and lunged until the tip of his blade froze three inches from his attacker’s throat. A wordless shout burst from the startled newcomer. He leaped back, jerked his open hands in the air, and yelled, “Hold, Juan Sebastian! Hold!” Elcano snapped his sword away from the stunned face and took a step toward him. “Blessed Mother! Juan!” He pulled in a couple of breaths then groaned loudly. “Please forgive a foolish friend. I’ve started imagining evil everywhere, even in your footsteps.” Juan de Elorriaga lowered his hands, took a deep breath of his own, and began to chuckle faintly. “You gave me such a start I didn’t even think to draw my own sword.” His laughter gathered a little strength when he said, “A good thing, eh? We might have made quick work of one another.” At the pained look that crossed Elcano’s face, Elorriaga took pity on him. “Ah, we are all too edgy these days. God willing, things will be calmer once we set sail.” Elcano slowly sheathed his sword and retrieved his cape, giving it a snapping shake before draping it back over his shoulders. “I haven’t drawn a sword so recklessly since I was thirteen. I almost wish you were not so tolerant with me.” “Oh, I don’t intend to let you forget it. I may even send word of this back to your mother.” Elcano allowed himself a smile. “What brought you here so early?” “Likely the same things that brought you.” Pointing at the fleet, Elorriaga said, “I heard the ships calling.”