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Emmet took off his tricorn hat and scratched the top of his head. He didn't know why he was surprised to see the place standing there exactly as described.

Meanwhile Sully squinted, sounding out the words on the sign.

"The Saltry Siren. Huh. It really does say 'saltry'."

Emmet had assumed he was mishearing the local accent and the word was actually sultry. Or maybe salty?

"When you think about it, 'saltry' is a pretty good description of a siren. The owner of this place must have a sense of humor."

"Or he's a bad speller."

Sully shrugged. "You can be both."

Orthography aside, the logic that brought them here was the same that applied in every time period: if you have no idea where to start looking for someone, head to a tavern.

And here was exactly the sort of dockside watering hole that didn't ask its patrons whether the cargo they carried was legitimate. It got rowdier after the sun went down, at least according to local reports, but there were well-traveled sailors milling about quenching their thirst at all hours of the day.

All Emmet and Sully needed was for someone in there to have laid eyes on Victor, or one of his underlings, at least once. And if no one had, they'd simply try again—elsewhere or when it was rowdier.

"And you want me to stay away from booze this time," Sully inquired before they headed in.

Emmet pondered this for a moment.

While last time's outing was... as enlightening about his assistant's lack of alcohol tolerance as it was disastrous for their plans, Emmet's new plans contained additional safeguards. For one, the time machine was in a place where Victor, or his underlings, couldn't get to it. For another, Emmet hadn't brought all their money with them, so neither of them could drunkenly gamble it away.

And while the United States circa 1890 had a burgeoning temperance movement, an 18th century sailor who didn't drink was a contradiction in terms. For heaven's sake, a daily naval ration still contained half a pint of rum!

A different time, different rules. Making a drunken ass of himself here might actually ingratiate Sully with the locals.

"Make an effort to keep a lid on it," Emmet replied. "Otherwise... use your best judgement. Remember, we want to blend in."

He made a wordless signal that he knew Sully would receive loud and clear: I'm keeping my eye on you.

---

The duo strode through the entrance using the stance they'd practiced: not quite "owning the place" but clearly meaning business.

Business wasn't booming today. Emmet immediately spotted a sourpussed lion loitering near the entrance who looked like he was waiting for someone and a large ursine drinking away his sorrows. Neither of them seemed very approachable, and there weren't many other patrons to choose from.

Sully noticed this. "You want I should..."

The ferret sometimes had a better talent for getting people to open up than Emmet did. He gave the nod that the two of them should split up. It was for the best, as the wombat spied a far more promising candidate reclining at a table near the back of the establishment.

While Sully cheerily sauntered away, undoubtedly still soaking in the aroma of being in a "real pirate tavern", Emmet made a confident beeline towards his target, sizing them up along the way.

Slender feliform. Female. Possibly a fossa? She's a long way from home if that's what she is. Heavily scarred, blind in one eye. Make that blinded. Her jacket's a bit big for her. Probably stolen. Plenty of jewelry.

All signs pointed to pirate. Her gender alone made her an odd duck out in a place like this. That and men's clothing painted a picture of a social misfit. While sailing was a dangerous profession in general, there was far too much battle damage on her for a merchant sailor. And pirates of all stripes "wore their wealth", both to flaunt their success and because they couldn't easily open bank accounts.

He paused midway along the length of her table, watching her merely sip from the flagon she was holding as if he was completely invisible.

After an awkward moment of standing there he finally grunted to get her attention.

"Pardon me, ma'am. I was wondering if—"

"This place is full." She took a frothy swig from her glass and wiped her mouth on her coat sleeve. "Someone like yerself 'll be wantin' 'Aurora's Tears' up the way."

The way she comported herself reminded him of Victor in the western saloon. Her single eye remained fixed straight ahead. She shifted in her seat slightly but very pointedly did not straighten her posture for him.

Emmet feigned looking around to gauge whether what she said was true. "Then I'm lucky a spot opened up right here."

He took the empty seat across from her, a middle aged groan escaping his lips in spite of his desire not to reveal how sore his back was. When she didn't outright reject his presence he unrolled the paper he'd brought along with him.

"I'm looking for a man. A white cat, with a broken fang. Have you seen him by any chance?"

The fossa let out a dark chuckle. "Ye're much too far from home, mate, not to mention out of yer depth, to be askin' those sorts o' questions."

"I can offer you money." He detached a coinpurse from his belt and dropped it on the table with a jingling thud. "If that's what it takes."

His interviewee pondered the bag of gold, pensively stroking her chin. "That all depends."

"There's more where that came from, if you need more convin—"

"It depends on who be askin' and who be providin'," she interrupted.

Emmet clammed up. She was inquiring about the provenance of the gold and whose schemes she'd be stepping into by accepting it. He quickly analyzed the data point. Perhaps she didn't mean to, but her hesitation revealed a lot about herself.

Namely, that she not only dwelled among pirates but that she held some position of rank among them. If underneath her trappings and demeanor she was simply some lowly grunt, or worse—trafficked or pressed into service—she'd have no reason not to simply take the money. But the fact that her mind went immediately in this direction indicated she was accustomed to weighing her greed against the "political" consequences of her actions.

She probably wasn't a captain herself—female pirate captains of any species tended to land in the history books—but she worried about her actions being noticed, which meant there were people who did notice them.

"I'm not with the Crown," he reassured her. "No one sent me. My money and my business are my own."

For the first time her eye fell directly on him. She was sizing him up. "Aye. Ye dress like a mariner. I wager daddy taught ye the ropes when ye was a wee lad. And I'll bet more money that cat on yon parchment be the one what prompted his untimely demise. Be I cuttin' close?"

She clearly knew something, but too much eagerness would push her in the wrong direction. "Aye. Mayhap."

The fossa nodded, grimly and sagely. She set down her glass, and straightened herself up just a tad. "What be yer name, mate?"

Emmet ran through some calculations. He had several false monikers he could call upon and one true one. He had to make judicious use of them, though. Letting his true name out might draw Victor to him, but if he was already getting headway on his own...

"Ezekiel Undertow."

"Mina to me mates," came her reply. "To me enemies... things polite ears best not be hearin'."

They shook paws, and Emmet felt the tension in his spine loosen. He'd shown the requisite gumption, he hadn't shied away from straight-talking a pirate, and the result was the striking of a friendship. She wanted to tell what she knew. Now it was just peeling back the remaining defenses.

But first, a lingering doubt. "You said something about me being far from home."

"Aye." She nodded again. "That's been puzzlin' me, to be sure."

"How so?"

"I've sailed 'round the world in my time. Even set foot in New Holland."

That was a name used in this period for Australia. The message was obvious.

"You've met other wombats."

Her response was vigorous. "Aye. I've known wombats. The average one don't relish strayin' far from his doorstep."

"That's true. I mean... that be so. But I've never been an average wombat to begin with."

"Then my puzzle be that ye're a long way from home, mate! A man comes ashore after a voyage like that, ye see it written all over his face, in his clothes."

She was saying that an accomplished sailor should look grizzled and weatherbeaten, and that he came across as too fresh to fit the role he was playing. But Emmet had an answer for that, and it was a rare pleasure to be able to tell the proper truth in service of a lie.

"My voyage was a long time ago. I haven't been back... home in a long while."

"Then that be one thing we share, mate." She laughed, pleasantly and congenially. "We both be long away an' far from home." Her visible eye narrowed suddenly. "An' that be the only thing. Yer da passed back then, not last week, an' ye've been scrimpin' an' savin' ever since. Now mayhap ye have a name an' face t' chase, an' a ship, an' perchance even a crew but the boy what swore revenge be too old and gray to take it!"

Emmet nearly leapt from his seat in offense but Mina preempted him.

"Ye're a soft-bellied landlubber, Ol' Zeke!" She reached across the table and jabbed him straight in the gut. "I only tell what I know to real men." She sat back down. "Go find the ferret you came in with. Mayhap he can parlay with me. You don't belong here!"

The wombat rose defiantly to his feet. If there was any pain left in his back he was long past acknowledging it.

"You seem like a betting woman, Mina. Would you like to make a wager?"

---

I guess the moral of the story is: if it seems like someone's good at pushing your buttons, consider the possibility that they've shown up to do precisely that.

Comic page by  alexjohnson93 (and a "remake" of this sketch).