1

––

2

Table of Contents Beta-Version 05/19

This is a teaser preview of a book I’m still writing.

It has not been fully edited yet, and may contain mistakes. Prologue ............................................................................................ 3

Chapter 1 ........................................................................................... 7

Chapter 2 ......................................................................................... 26

Chapter 3 ......................................................................................... 46 Chapter 4 ......................................................................................... 66

About the Book ............................................................................... 88

About the Author ............................................................................ 89

Glossary .......................................................................................... 90

3

Prologue

HE PEN NIB snaps under my enthusiasm and dots the exclamation mark with a thick, black blot. I quickly toss chaffed wood on the page to stop the ink from spreading, but in my haste knock

against the inkwell. I manage to catch it, but upset the lamp in turn, which rocks with the ship’s gentle bobbing. A breathless moment, a graceless sway, but then it settles and I exhale in relief that, for once, I didn’t break anything.

A fitting parting gift. This desk, this chair, this pen have all had to tolerate my awkward clumsiness for too long already. As first mate and skipper on sufferance I may be in charge of the ship and her logbooks, but none of that means I belong in this cabin. A ship’s cabin is the domain of her captain, and everything in this room longs to be handled with a captain’s expertise.

Hell, the entire ship longs for a capable commander to take the helm. Around me, timbers groan. The mizzen mast is settling into the ship’s

structure, pushing and pulling against new joints with tremors that send a shudder through my body like stretching after a long night’s sleep.

T

4

They call to me, the masts and the rigging. I understand them better than I do words on paper.

In a hurry, I shove the logbook back on the shelf with its fellows and abandon the desk. I’m of much more use out on deck than I could ever be in here.

Every time I sit in the captain’s chair, a tightness creeps into my chest, but as always, it lifts the instant I step out the cabin door out, head bend a little to clear the ceiling that roofs the aft of the quarterdeck. The new mizzen’s base sits right in the middle, rising through the ceiling and high above the top deck. Its smooth surface smells of fresh paint that glistens in the scant sunlight. Overhead, I hear arguments about installing the shrouds, the blocks, and hoisting the spanker boom. Heated debates, but the men’s roused voices make me smile. At this rate, we’ll have the yards mounted and ready for fitting before nightfall.

“Ahem.” Harold, the ship’s boatswain. His presence registers, but I’m too

enthralled by the fixtures of the mast base to reply. “I’m so pleased to see you’re enjoying our little addition, Will,” he

scolds, “but I thought you’d be in the cabin, updating the log.” “Already done, old man,” I say, grinning from ear to ear. “Can you

believe it? The last entry I’ll ever have to make!” Harold shakes his head. “We’ve been over this, lad. Don’t pin yourself

down on the details. Reaching maturity is not a fixed process. The captain may well take a while longer to join us.”

“James won’t be late,” I say with a conviction I cannot explain. “’The Captain will assume command once the Ship reaches maturity’. That is now. The new mizzen proves it!”

“Your ability to paraphrase the nautical manuals doesn’t make them more accurate.”

“He’ll be here. Soon. And once he takes command, we’ll be able to set out on our own. No fleet to tell us where to go or what to do. We’ll explore waters we’ve never sailed, race dolphins and marlins, find other ships, maybe start our own little fleet.”

“You’re a dreamer.” “Could be, but…” My fingers caress the mizzen’s base without caring

about the sticky paint. “His arrival changes everything, you’ll see. With James in command, we’ll be able to leave all the old crap behind.” Then

5

I remember my scrawled records in the logbooks. “Do you think he’ll have trouble reading my handwriting?”

The old boatswain snorts a laugh. “You really can’t wait to hand over command, can you, lad?”

“Of course not!” I beam. “It’s happening, Harold. We’re finally going to have a proper captain!”

6

7

Chapter 1

REMIND MYSELF for the umpteenth time that, regardless of my previous experiences, not every meeting of fleets is a battle. Right now, we’re attending a parley. A negotiation. Not a battle.

Except that’s one nasty-looking fleet across from ours. Three warships, destroyers carrying at least fifty guns each, and not for show. Moreover, I recognise the patchwork on their hulls. Such repairs are typical for ships that see combat often and tend to win. By comparison, the group of two allied brigantines and one merchantman representing our fleet seems too small. Weak. Which shouldn’t matter, since we’re not in battle.

Not yet, anyway. I’m not sure what to think of our position, either. As per the Admiral’s

orders, we’re well behind the line, halfway between the parleying ships in front of us and our flagship behind us. In short, too close to avoid enemy fire, should there be any, but too far away to make a contribution to the negotiations.

Makes me wonder what the fuck we’re doing here. To my right, James peers through his spyglass. The captain’s

effortlessly upright stature commands respect, but we’ve sailed together long enough now that I spot the tension in his shoulders and the extra furrow in his brow. They tell me he has serious doubts about the situation, too.

“The Admiral could’ve sent his consort to hold this position,” I say, only partially to myself. “A hundred-gun galleon would definitely make a bigger impression on that lot.”

“She’s useless in battle.” James lowers his spyglass but doesn’t take his attention off the ships exchanging signals with our allies. “As you noted for yourself, Will, the galleon rarely opens her gun ports, and when she does, a single broadside volley tears up friend and foe alike. The Admiral won’t risk that.”

“Not even in our defence,” I mutter. We’ve been in plenty of skirmishes before James took command, and I recall them well. I always hoped the galleon would come to my aid whenever we were

I

8

outgunned, but the ports on those three gundecks had remained shut, no matter how much enemy fire raked us.

Disgust froths in my throat like a bad meal coming up. I push away the memories and refocus on the present. Too many parallels for comfort:

“The galleon has fifty guns to a broadside, we only have ten. And they,” I point at our allies, “can’t fire more than forty guns between them. Smaller calibre, too. I can’t see how are they supposed to stand up against that kind of superior force.”

“That is why the Admiral leads a fleet of battleships, and you are now bosun.” James glances sideways just long enough to shoot me a withering glare before raising the spyglass to his eye again.

The truth bites, but I try not to show it. Not when we could be waist-deep in combat soon. We might be. Or not. It’s not supposed to come to a battle, after all. Even James said so. But that’s one nasty fleet right there.

“Captain?” “What?” “Do you have any idea of the Admiral’s plan?” James sneers irritably. “What I have, Will, are orders to follow. As do

you.” It’s the last he says for the next half hour. The parley continues. Neither our allies nor the flagship makes a call

on us. To keep busy, I pace down the starboard gangway to inspect the crew manning our braces. They’re eagerly waiting for orders, grateful to work the sails once again.

Ages ago, when the crew was half this size, the fleet decided my piloting was so poor I couldn’t be trusted. They took our canvas and tethered us to their wake, for safety. I was so desperate to catch the wind, I’d fit the yards with bedsheets if that helped. It didn’t. But then James arrived and convinced the Admiral to supply us with a full set of sails. Now my body resonates with those immense sheets tugging at their fittings and lines, and it feels fantastic!

All thanks to James. I swear that man can convince currents to flow backwards and stars to come down from the sky. Like a true captain. I wish I could do justice by him.

Finishing my round of the ship, I check with the gun crews. Earlier, before we reached this rendez-vous, James had seemed conflicted about

9

the Admiral’s explicit orders to stow the guns. He had warned us empathically not to fire as much as a warning shot, but had rubbed his wrist the way he’s wont to do when he’s on the fence about something. So I made sure the guns are prepared to be loaded at a word.

Just in case. I return to the starboard bulwark, checks completed. James hasn’t

moved from his spot, or at all. Only the depth of his frown increased. So much you could launch a submarine there. My fist clenches around my pistol. My other hand finds the whistle around my neck, preparing to relay orders.

“What is happening, captain?” “Their leader stopped signalling.” A long pause drags out, but just

when I want to prompt him again, James slams the spyglass shut. “They’re making ready to fire. Mr Harold, beat to quarters!”

Harold, first mate in my place, bellows back that all stations except the guns are manned and ready. But behind James’s back, he catches my attention, points at his eyes, and makes a questioning gesture. I shrug in response.

“No guns,” James growls, although I swear I can hear his teeth gnashing when the gun ports of the enemy fleet open. He quickly gauges our position relative to them, then turns to see where our flagship and her consort are.

“Damn it, the current is carrying us away. Ready to tack at my signal!” His hand rises; I put my whistle to my lips. But before his hand falls,

the air fills with the rumble of cannon fire, and the screams of men and wood.

All three destroyers have fired; volleys tear into our allies with unstoppable force. Some balls clear their target. The whistle slips from my grasp.

“Incoming!” James’s warning still echoes among the men when the first ball

thunders across the deck and rips through the portside bulwark in cloud of splinters. Sprays of water splash up where balls fell short of us by mere feet, while one laggard tears off a piece of our figurehead.

When I find my breath and my whistle, I blow the signal ‘prepare to fire’, only for the second note to end in a squeal when James yanks the piece from my mouth.

10

“Belay that!” he barks over the noise of our allies answering the assault. Then he is in my face. “What the Hell would that accomplish?” he hisses. “They are out of range and we have no clear line of fire!”

Another deafening volley drowns out the end of his growl. The havoc it wreaks on our three allies is devastating, but the balls don’t make the sound they’re supposed to. James and I both look up in alarm.

“Chain-shot,” James grinds out while several pairs of twin balls and chain, designed to destroy masts, screech overhead. Well clear of our mast tops.

James goes stark white. “Good god. They’re aiming at our flagship.” Instinctively I turn, in time to see the Admiral’s ship take evasive

action. The balls hurdling towards her suddenly deflect and plunge into the sea at odd angles, but before I can make sense of that, our top mizzen mast takes a direct hit.

The impact sends shivers through my every fibre. Reeling with surprise, I can only watch the inevitable: the mizzen cracks, lists and slowly keels over towards the main mast, while the slanted spanker boom comes crashing down.

Beside me, James tenses. The air around him vibrates. Just then, the long spanker boom veers sideways, the canvas ripping loose as it slides overboard. The broken mizzen top keels to starboard, missing the lines of the other masts by a fraction. Two seconds, then it’s done.

“Stop gaping and make yourself useful,” the captain snarls, striding away. “Harold! We’re still drifting! Where are my—”

Mid-sentence and mid-motion, he freezes. I grab his arm before he loses his balance, and in that heartbeat, I’d swear his eyes are white.

“Captain?” He blinks, his legs finishing their step. He notices my hand on his arm. “New orders,” he says to me, slightly breathless. “Prepare the guns.

We are to protect the fleet at all costs.” Then he paces over to the helm. “We still have two masts, Mr Harold. Bring us closer to the line!”

With creak of straining timber, the ship begins to come about, turning our other side to face the enemy ships. Our 8-pounders won’t put much of a dent in the hulls of those destroyers, but it may delay their next volley long enough for our allies to respond first.

I pipe the gun crews a full ‘prepare to fire’ signal. The unintentional thrill in the tones is lost in the heat of the moment, but my throat

11

tightened for a reason. I had full confidence when I readied the men for this event, but truth is we’ve had issues with the guns. Big issues. It’s no secret. I logged every incident and James rubbed my face in each one, but we never found out what caused it. The Admiral is well aware of these problems, too, so we never received orders to fire. Until now.

All I can do is hope that the guns like James better than they do me. Before our ship has finished the turn, the men have opened the ports

and loaded the guns. Craig, the chief gunner, signs me in from the main deck, and I relay.

“Guns ready, captain. Aimed high to clear the friendly vessels.” James nods in the passing and leaps onto the edge of the forward

bulwark, holding on to the shrouds of the foremast. “Full sequence, on my mark.”

Coming about brings us right behind the damaged ships we are to support. Our allies try to hold the line, but this close, any fool can see that two of them are down for the count and floundering. Literally. The merchantman’s crew is desperately hauling up comrades who went overboard. I should focus on our own fight, but I can’t help glimpsing at least two floating bodies that no longer respond.

Chills crawl beneath my skin. Sometimes, battle damage is permanent.

“Fire!” I start, too late for my hesitation to go unnoticed. Fortunately, Craig

has the captain in sight and responds at once. One by one, the gun crew light the fuses, so the guns will fire one after the other. Three second-fuses. Like the men, I cover my ears and I count under my breath.

One, two, three, four, five… Nothing. “Oh fuck.” I slide down the ladder to the main deck, in time to hear

Craig shout for his men to wait, just in case one of the charges goes off with delay. Precious seconds tick away; half of the fuses fizzle out. The others weren’t even lit after the first gun misfired.

“The fuck is going on?” James barks as he leaps down beside me. “The powder didn’t catch. It happens,” says Craig, although James is

glaring daggers at me. “We’ll replace the fuses and—” James’s furious gaze flares in a way eyes aren’t supposed to. He puts

his hand on the nearest gun barrel, and the air shimmers again.

12

“Clear the guns!” I yell even before I understand what’s about to happen.

The first gun fires, followed by the second, the third. The sequence goes on with deafening explosions that need no fuse. All men duck and cover as one gun after the next fires its ball and yanks at the thick ropes that catch its recoil.

Until the one under James’s hand breaks loose. The force of the recoil swerves the gun sideways, knocking James

headlong into the opposite battery with a sickening crash. By some sheer miracle the loose cannon misses everyone else. More cannon fire thunders nearby.

It’s not ours. Enemy shot rakes our quarterdeck, and at least two balls drive through

our hull. The ship’s timber cries out – cries out to me – as splinters the size of knives fly across all decks. On instinct, I shelter James’s limp body from the onslaught. In vain. Already bloodstains spread across his uniform, and fast.

“Oh, shit.” “Will! We’re taking on water!” I hear Lars shout, but I can’t move. Can’t respond. The stains on

James’s chest keep growing. I can’t stop the bleeding any more than I could stop the fallings masts destroying our ship. James did that. He can fix this, not me.

“Captain, wake up.” My voice shakes. My whole body shakes. “Captain, please!”

One cough, so sudden I start. “Two holes at the waterline,” James mutters, staring up at the sky. The

shadows hide much of his face, but I’ll wager his eyes aren’t their usual steel grey when he blinks slowly. “There.” With some effort, he sits up.

“Captain, no. You shouldn’t move. You’re injured. Badly.” James has shot me some foul looks over the past year, but this one is

so dark, so full of utter hatred, I wish the ocean would swallow me whole.

“It’s nothing,” he declares with contempt and wipes a trickle of blood from his mouth. Then he staggers to his feet. If not for those hideous bloodstains, you’d say that cannon never even grazed him.

13

Around us, the men bustle with tools and material to plug the leaks we sprang, spurred on by Harold. I should help them. I should. Those bloodstains on James’s chest are fading already. He doesn’t need me.

I’m still trying to regain my bearings when Harold clambers down from the quarterdeck, looking grim.

“Captain. Will. We’re in dire straits.” “I know,” James says simply. Harold bristles at this evident disinterest. “The damage is substantial.

The mizzen is gone, the timbers took a pounding, and the hull’s been breached!”

“Not important right now. What of our volley?” James stares into nothing, but then his stern expression becomes pained. “We hit our allies, didn’t we?”

Harold puts on his best consoling smile, but it falters. “Some of our shot may have nicked them, I’m afraid. The rest of the volley, well…”

“Missed entirely,” James finishes. “We failed. No, I failed.” “Surely it’s not that bad, captain. The enemy fleet departed, our

flagship is undamaged, and all of the allied ships are still afloat.” But James isn’t listening. His fists are clenched so tightly that blood

stains his left cuff. Nails digging into his palm, or a result of the injuries he brushed off? I can’t tell, and he wouldn’t want me to pry. Certainly not now.

“The Admiral will hold us accountable for this fiasco.” He snaps from his thoughts and regards us. “I shall take the blame, as is my duty. I would appreciate it if you do yours and see to the necessary repairs while I talk with him.”

“Naturally, captain,” says Harold. I just nod, and dare to feel a little hopeful when James returns it. “Try and salvage of the mizzen what you can,” he adds. “I don’t think

we can expect the fleet to provide assistance after this, never mind furnish emergency equipment.”

A strange ache nags in my empty ribcage when James retreats. Something’s wrong, it seems, but I can’t put my finger on it. A part of me wants to go after him, but Harold slaps my arm.

“C’mon, lad. Let’s do our part to clear up this mess.” At once, the urgency of the ship’s needs eats up my focus. While wood

floats, the metal trappings on a yardarm weigh it down, meaning we

14

don’t have much time to secure the broken masts before they sink. Both the spanker and mizzen top broke clean away after James’s intervention, but like fallen sailors always drift towards their ship, so does wreckage. Regardless of our battle manoeuvre and the currents, our missing pieces bob towards us, although barely afloat. The sails are still attached, but are already disappearing into the deep.

Donald leans over the side and sees what I see. “This’ll clear out the cable loft.”

A ship always has plenty of lines on board to serve as tethers. Or she should. We’ve been running short on spare cable for a while and with the damage we sustained, I don’t want to waste any. But losing our mizzen now, it may take years to replace it. If ever.

“Like we have a choice,” I grumble. “Bring up all that’s left, and find me two men who’re up for a swim.”

Soon enough, but only just soon enough, three volunteers paddle through the water to secure lines to any part of the yardarms still above the surface. It a dangerous job. I ought to do it myself, and would have but for Harold’s insistence that he oversees the salvaging of the mast while I climb down to the orlop deck to deal with the damaged hull.

Descending the stairs from the gundeck, I’m enveloped by dank air and the perpetual dusk of lantern light. Below the gundeck, above the hold, the orlop deck is half below the waterline. There are no portholes here, and while the hammocks have been stowed prior to battle, the smell of six dozen men living and sleeping under these rafters never clears. And it’s always crowded, currently with men tending to the battle damage. Either the ship’s or their own. The added stench of fear, blood and gunpowder makes the air almost too thick to breathe.

Richard, the ship’s surgeon, has his hands full removing splinters from limbs and torsos. I wince at the sight, but he acknowledges me with a nod that conveys we have no serious casualties. The wounded men will recover, like James did.

Reassured on that count, I take stock of the damage to the hull. No one seems in a particular hurry, but from where I stand, I can see below the ocean’s surface. In two places.

“Holy shit! What are you blind fucks loitering about for? At this rate we’ll fucking flood the hold before we plug those holes.” I shove a hammer and nails at the nearest man. “Get a move on, will you?”

15

“No need, ’cause we’re not,” says Lars. He thumbs at the ragged holes. “It’s bone-dry.”

“What? How?” “Dunno. Water came pouring in earlier, but while we were scurrying

to board it up, it just stopped. The water’s still out there, but it’s, I dunno, ignoring us.”

He’s not wrong. The water sloshes against the outside of the breach, but not a drop spills over the exposed grain of splintered wood. Dumbfounded, I reach for the centre of the hole. At my touch, a sparkle ripples outward, but the waves on the other side of the invisible wall couldn’t care less and my fingertips stay dry.

“He’s bought us time.” “What’s that?” “A shield. It’s a shield to keep the water out while you work. Make

sure you’re done plugging before it wears off.” Lars prods the hole. The shield ripples. “Wear off? When?” “Not a clue. The only one who could tell us is going to be busy for a

while, so you’d better hurry.” A stack of boards clatters at my feet. It’s dropped there by Simon, the

master carpenter. To catch my attention. He has it. “You’re saying the captain did that,” he states in that surly,

perpetually aggressive tone of his. “I have reason to believe so. Is that a problem?” “Could be. If you’re attributing more power to him than he has.” Simon is as tall as me. Neither of us can stand up straight here, yet I

look him square in the eye as if we are. “Beg pardon? If you’d seen what he did when the mizzen broke—”

“I saw those masts fall,” he interrupts. “Just like I saw what he did to you last month, and how he made false accusations to justify it.”

I don’t anger easily, but my lips curl into a snarl. “I fucked up those estimates and we all suffered the consequences. Nothing false about that! It shouldn’t’ve happened, and it shouldn’t be allowed to happen again. James set an example to assure that. Like any good captain would’ve done.”

“Good captains lash their men, do they?” I shrug. “A few kisses of the cat o’nine. I’ve been in hail storms that

hurt more.”

16

“Stop defending him!” Simon’s roar stifles all sound on the narrow deck. “A few kisses? He tore your fucking back to shreds. The deck was wet with blood. Your blood. At his hands!”

I want to counter, but in my mind, I’m bracing myself against the main mast while James’s whip rips into me, lash after lash. It hurts, I’m bleeding. I didn’t count the strikes, unwilling to put a number to how much he must hate me. Yet he stops while I’m still standing. Stops and announces my punishment completed, well before I have any right to expect it. Despite what the men assume, he was kind to me that day.

Still, I understand their dismay with our captain is born from fear, not resentment

“When I was skipper, I never dealt out lashings because, in all honesty, I don’t want to hurt anyone. Especially not my own mates. But I also failed to see several huge mistakes I made. Mistakes which James works hard to correct.”

Simon eyes me with suspicion, but doesn’t contest. I put my hand on his shoulder.

“After Harold and Richard, you were one of the first crew members to join,” I remind him. “I’m sure you remember the things we’ve seen happen on other ships. Captains who abandoned their duty and let their ship drift. Captains so bad at piloting that they constantly run aground. Captains so full of hubris that they’d steer their ship into a hurricane, just to prove a point.” I glance around at all the ears listening in. “Yes, James has his faults. He’s aloof, demanding, and short-tempered. But we could’ve done a lot worse. At least our captain makes the ship’s wellbeing his first priority. He proved that much today.”

I gesture at the shielded holes in the hull for emphasis, but they already got the message. Simon sighs, but picks up a board, nails and a hammer, and starts on the repairs. Some grumbling aside, I feel the dissent around me ebb away. For the time being, at least.

Did I spoil them? Maybe. If I’d done a better job as skipper, they might have accepted James’s command more readily.

“Oi, Will!” Joshua calls from the forward ladder. “Problems below. The bilge is filling up again.”

A flurry of curses washes over the men. “Of course it did,” I yell over the din. “We took on water, remember?”

“No, it’s rising,” says Joshua. “As in, right now.”

17

“Fuck this. Simon, leave the repairs to Lars and man the pumps!” All argument forgotten, Simon musters hands to start bailing at once,

while I’m heading into the hold. Every ship has a bilge. When a ship takes on water during rough seas

or rainstorms, that water collects in the lowest part of the ship. It always has a few inches of water, like liquor at the bottom of a bottle you can’t quite drain. It’s perfectly natural.

What’s not natural, is my feet making a wet splash at the bottom of the ladder.

“Fuck! How bad is it?” “Over two feet. The entire hold floor is flooded,” Joshua replies with

suppressed alarm as he climbs down after me, bringing a lantern. Beyond that light, the hold is pitch-black. I feel the water I’m standing

in seep into my boots. Groaning wood and sucking noises rise up from the darkness as the pumps start, but it will be several hours before the water levels stops posing a danger.

If there isn’t any more water coming in. “You said it’s still rising?” “Yeah,” Joshua says. “We must’ve missed a leak or sumthin’.” A logical conclusion, but it feels wrong. I extend my senses, searching

for signs of damage that I may feel even if I can’t see them. Only the breaches on the upper decks come back. I detect no broken timber down here, no holes. Only a thick, cloying stench that has become too familiar over the years. I tie my handkerchief around my nose and mouth.

“Lend me your light,” I tell Joshua. “I’ll take a look in the bilge.” Off to the side, something scurries away. Vermin. Every ship has

them, too, no matter how often you flush them out. Joshua’s face contorts as he hands over his lantern. “I’ll, ah, I’ll stay close,” he says.

He will, although for his own comfort and protection rather than mine. My crew aren’t cowards, but the sinister, light-eating shadows around the bilge have spooked brave men witless. Venturing near the forward keel to bail excess water gives even the likes of Simon the jitters.

And there’s always excess water to bail. A foot is no longer an exception.

A slow leak somewhere, best I can tell, but even after years of trying, I can’t find it. Another nail in my coffin as failed skipper and failing boatswain, right alongside the dodgy sails and the incomplete rigging.

18

I’m sure James can fix this screw-up, as he did my others, but he shouldn’t have to do it alone.

Sloshing through the shallow water, I make my way to the forward-most corner of the hold, where the ship’s sides bend towards each other. I should see them meet at the ship’s massive keel beam, but the shadows here are so deep that the light of my lantern dissipates in the darkness.

I stop when my toes feel the edge of the hold’s floorboards. While there is at least another three feet of space between me and the hull, I can barely see the tiny cell right in front of me, nested in the crook of the keel. In the bilge.

I suppress a shudder. James could have done worse than whip me for my missteps. He could have locked me in there for a few hours...

“Right,” I mutter into the dark ahead. “Let’s get this over with.” Stepping off the floorboards, I expect the drop to the bottom of the

hull, but still shiver when my leg disappears into knee-deep water. Cool moisture spreads across the skin of my face and arms like a slimy film, while noxious fumes try to suffocate both me and the lantern’s tiny flame. The light dims to a pinprick, but I can still see, if with great difficulty.

A few handwidths in front of me are the rust-covered bars of the cell. Some have corroded so far that they appear as if vermin have chewed through the metal. The lower half of every bar glistens. I inspect them on touch; they’re covered with wet algae and mould. To one side of the cell, half lodged between the bars, a haphazard heap of rotten cloth peaks out of the stagnant water. Reject canvas, likely.

“We should remove the refuse in here,” I call over my shoulder. Joshua replies with something that sounds like ‘not in my lifetime’.

“No choice.” I cough in the putrid air. “We got rotting canvas stinking up the place. Stuff like that will contaminate everything.” Like the hull. Our ship isn’t that old and should be fine despite the persistent damp, but I raise the lantern to check the timber all the same.

Instead of illuminating the faintest outline of wood grain, the lantern’s ember glow disappears in darkness. I lean in closer, almost slipping on the slick wood submerged in the water now soaking my trousers, and press the light right against the hull. Only now I can make out a board and a few strips of caulking.

“Shit.”

19

“Will? What’s wrong?” I hold my tongue and move the light up, to the next board. And the

next. Then as far to the back as I can reach. “Oh, fuck!” Shock draws a sharp breath for me. Mouldy fumes fill my lungs,

sending me into a wrecking coughing fit that makes me drop the lantern. In the absolute dark, a strong hand finds my collar and hauls me bodily away. I’m still coughing when I clutch the ladder under the hatch to the orlop deck. After the shadows of the bilge, the obscure flecks that drift down from the lights overhead feel bright as sunrise.

“Will, what did you find?” Joshua asks. I tug my handkerchief from my face. The floor of the hold is still wet

and the air isn’t much better, but it clears my mind enough to piece together the implications of what I saw.

“Will?” Nothing. I saw nothing. “I’m good.” I reach out, silently asking him to help me to my feet. We

both ignore the black, slimy film on my palm when he does. But when I start to climb up without answering his question, he grabs my arm.

“What did you find?” he insists. I lick my lips. “No battle damage,” I say, and hope that it’s enough. I

don’t want to stir a panic over something I’m sure James can solve with a flick of the wrist.

On every deck, teams work in unison to repair the damage we sustained, while any hands they can spare man the lines to keep the wind in what sails we have left. It’s slow going, I sense by the swell of the sea, but that should improve once the mizzen is back in place.

Or maybe not. The spanker boom, still dripping water, is hoisted onboard just when

I climb onto the quarterdeck. Its sail is glaringly absent. “They had to cut it,” Harold says by way of explanation as he comes

up to meet me. “We can salvage the mast itself, the boom and the tops’l yard, but we lost the rigging and the canvas.” He thumbs over his shoulder. “Just told the captain. Must say he took the news better than I expected.”

20

“Really?” That isn’t the mood I’m sensing from the captain, but I might be wrong. James isn’t an easy man to read. “Then I’d better deliver my report while he has the patience to listen.”

Harold pats my arm, heralding one of his well-intended lectures to lift my spirits, but I brush him off with a half-hearted apology.

Anxiety spreads through a crew like mould on wet timber, and my insides churn at every flash memory of what I saw in the bilge. I can’t have that queasiness show, not when there are so many other problems that need attention.

My long legs cross the deck to the cabin door in a few strides and I fling it open.

“Captain, a word, please,” is what I want to say. What comes out is a stuttered grunt as I stand rooted on the threshold.

I should have knocked. I should have fucking knocked first! What if I interrupted an important meeting? James locks himself in his cabin all the time to speak with the Admiral and whoever else over the invisible connection shipmasters share. Who am I to butt in, even if it’s as pressing as our ship rotting away under our feet?

James, however, is sitting at his desk. Alone. And looks up. “Will.” It’s a statement, not permission to speak or an invitation to enter. His

expression is blank, too. I’m unsure about what that means. “Captain, I’m sorry to barge in, but we’ve got a huge problem.” “Quite,” he says flatly. “Mr Harold informed me of our significant

loss of canvas.” “It’s not about the sails.” Remembering how keen the men are about

eavesdropping, I shut the door. “It’s the hull.” “The breach at the waterline. What of it?” His deadpan tone catches me off guard. Barely hours ago, this man

led us in combat, brimming with fire and ferocity. The loss and the damage had shaken him, yes, but even then he had been steadfast, determined to do what needed to be done. Yet now I find only a terrifying stillness about him, like a becalmed sea. Somehow that’s scarier than broken masts and gaping holes.

“Are you all right, captain? You look awfully pale.” “I’m fine.”

21

Another statement. I let it convince me, hoping I’m wrong and that his skin only seems translucent because the light in the cabin is subdued, as if the windows are dirty. Wondering if it’s due to gun powder sooth, I become aware of a faint, off-putting scent beneath the usual odours of paper and ink. I smelled it down on the orlop deck, where Richard was tending to the wounded.

James had been injured, too. Biting back my alarm, I approach the desk to steal a glimpse. His

uniform is clean. Crisp, even. He must have changed since the fight. No way of telling what bandages he’s hiding underneath.

Too late I realise the captain’s glaring at me. “Your shield is holding,” I say, spouting the first thing that comes to

mind. “Uhm, will it dissolve before we’re done plugging?” “Is that what brought you crashing in here helter-skelter?” He arches

a brow and snorts. “It will hold until the repairs to the outer hull are completed. See that it is done.”

“On it. But those holes aren’t exactly a priority anymore. We have a bigger problem.” I study his reaction. It’s minimal. “In the bilge,” I add.

The corner of his eye twitches. The first sign of emotion since I came in.

“The bilge is your issue, Will. Always has been, judging by your logbooks. I suggest you finally put your back into finding and resolving the leakage down there, so we can focus on the issues at hand. Such as our new orders.”

I gape. Can’t he tell? Can’t he feel it, like he must have felt those cannon balls tearing into our broadside?

“There is no leak, captain,” I say, stressing every word. “No leak, but over two feet of water throughout the hold, because the timber of the bow is black with rot!”

Now he looks at me. Truly looks at me. A flame sparks in the depths of his eyes, and I latch onto it.

“The wood, the caulking, it’s all black and soft and porous,” I explain. “Water is seeping in everywhere along the bow and keel. There’s no plugging that. Soon, we’ll make more water than we can bail. Unless you do something.”

He frowns. “Me?”

22

“Who else? You prevented those masts tangling up in the rigging and pulling everything down. You halted and turned back the ocean itself! Surely you can stop our timber aging well before its time?”

To my amazement, his lips pull into a lop-sided smile. I go cold inside when it evolves into a sneer.

“Is that what you think is happening?” he drawls. “You scribbled in the manuals, so I know you have read them. Use that knowledge. Think. What else could it be causing this?”

Every word is laden with so many accusations that I’m not sure what to respond to, or how. Jaw working, I try to recall the paragraphs on troubleshooting the ship’s structure.

“Black mould indicates weathering of the timber due to prolonged exposure to the sea. It’s unavoidable in older ships and will ultimately lead to fatal breaches,” I paraphrase.

James nods. “Accurate, except that our ship isn’t of sufficient age for this to apply.” He saunters over to the niched bookcase and retrieves one of the leather-bound manuals from the top shelf. “The pages of the first two volumes are grimy and their spines are supple. You have consulted the basics quite thoroughly, but neglected the rest.”

“Captain, the bilge—!” “Is not a problem. Your problem is that you didn’t pay due attention

to the rest of the manuals. If you had, you’d know that black weathering of the timber is perfectly normal and easily solved.”

I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me pout, but I can’t hide that I have no idea what he’s hinting at. With a faint smirk, James opens the book, skips a few pages and then reads out loud:

“Black weathering can be safely ignored. It is the result of dampness, and will disappear when excess moisture is removed.”

“Bailing doesn’t help,” I blurt. “We routinely run the pumps, drain the bilge as far as we can, but the water always comes back. A little more and a little higher every time.”

“Try harder. The bow itself is sturdy, and the weathering will disappear when the timber has a chance to dry.”

My jaw drops. “You’re not listening! What do you think ‘draining the bilge’ is? A card game?” I jab at the manual. “The Admiral threw that same passage in my face whenever I asked him for advice on this. It

23

never worked as he said it would, but all he told me is that I’m not doing it right.”

“Considering how you handle the various other problems—” “Yeah, I admit I fucked up!” I yell. “But the bilge is a real threat to

the ship and it needs to be addressed. When you came on board, I hoped you’d have a proper solution. One that would work. And after what I saw during the battle today, I’m convinced that you can solve this! Only now you’re making me flounder on purpose, like the Admiral did!”

The echo of my voice against the cabin walls ring in my ears and I remember myself.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I don’t appreciate being played, is all.” James gauges me. His expression is impassive, guarded, but I sense

turmoil underneath. Turmoil that should’ve blown up in defence of himself and the Admiral. Yet as he puts the manuals back with exaggerated care, he withdraws further within himself. Like a hermit crab in its shell.

“The Admiral is not an easy man,” he says at last. “Someone of his calibre, with such vast experience as a pilot and a sailor, sometimes has trouble explaining why things are the way they are. For him it is so evident, while for those of us who haven’t spent his years at sea, matters seem more convoluted than necessary.”

“If you say so,” I mutter. With effort, I resist the urge to strum my shirt, and the hole it covers where my sternum used to be. “But you trust him, don’t you? You trust his instructions about the bilge.”

James’s fingers trace the manual’s spine. “I… trust the Admiral’s judgement, yes.”

“Right.” I rub both hands over my face to suppress a shiver. “All right then. I don’t understand half of what he wrote in those manuals, but I guess that’s why I didn’t make a very good skipper.”

James tilts his head a fraction. “I take it you don’t believe him?” “I can’t claim to believe what I don’t understand, captain. But I

believe you.” “Beg pardon?” When his confused gaze locks onto mine, his eyes are

dull and tired. I want nothing more than to rekindle the fire that should be there.

24

“You’re my captain,” I say. “I’ve seen what you can do. If you say draining the bilge further and more often will reverse the rot, then I believe you.”

25

26

Chapter 2

NY STORM CAN be weathered. It may take hours, days or longer, but eventually even the worst storm will run its course and dissipate. This one is no exception.

Hunched over the helm that has been my anchor for the past two days, I angle my gaze at the sky and squint against the sun. It peaks through the cloud cover as if innocent of the lightning, gale-force winds, and high waves that assaulted us until an hour ago.

Water drips from the yards and the lines. Our courses hang from their yards like soaked rags, their clewlines severed where I had to cut them loose before we lost either the sails, the masts, or both. Torn canvas is a nuisance, but repairable.

Utterly preventable, too, if everyone had done their duty. “Captain?” I glare at Mr Harold from the corner of my eye. He gives me an

awkward grin. “You, eh, you can let go now.” Easy for him to say. I force my neck and shoulders to straighten, but

after fighting the helm in the pouring rain for two days and two nights, my muscles have lost all memory of mobility. Unlocking my joints requires conscious effort. One at a time they submit, and I regain control. I flex my unresponsive fingers around the helm’s handles, willing sensation into each digit. Stings in my fingertips tell me I can release my hold, but before I do, I test the helm’s resistance.

The wheel turns smoothly. “The storm,” Harold says, taking note. “The water must’ve knocked

loose whatever was blocking the rudder earlier.” I slowly ball my fists, careful not to wince at the tenderness of my

palms. “The rudder should never have jammed in the first place,” I state. “No more than those sails should have been raised at the onset of such a storm.”

“The weather turned too suddenly, captain. We had no time to stow.” “Not enough hands to get it done, you mean,” I growl through my

clenched teeth. “Where the fuck was Will?”

A

27

“Below deck, I think. He was—” “He’s bosun! If he had done his fucking job, we’d have undamaged

sails with undamaged rigging to take us on our way back to the fleet!” Not to mention that if Will had performed proper maintenance on the helm and the rudder, I could have steered us away from the storm before it threw us off course. By leagues.

I have no idea where we are. Hot with humiliation, the blood rising in my rain-whipped cheeks

burns like razors under my skin. We’re lost. We’re fucking lost! Not for long. Never for long. The constant pull of the wake of the

Admiral’s flagship guides us regardless of my actions, but damned if this mess isn’t too fucking embarrassing!

“Will is aware of his responsibilities, captain.” I peg the old man with a glare. “Are you certain, Mr Harold? Because

here in the real world, Will screwed us over. Royally!” Harold purses his faded lips, muttering under this breath before

speaking up. “You’ll be wanting word with the lad, I gather?” Behind him, on the far side of the ship, sunlight touches a familiar

stubbled face on the damp, steaming foredeck. It takes Will a split second to spot me, start and dart up the shrouds, but in that split second his culpability screams at me. At him, too, judging by the speed with which he climbs aloft.

“Oh yes, I want a word,” I say, following Will’s shadow up to the forward masthead. “After he’s done fitting both sails with homeward bounders and jury rigging, so we can indeed sail for home.”

My intent is clear. As first mate, Harold should see it done. Yet he draws a short, pointed gasp that I’ve learned to interpret as a sign of discontent.

“Pardon me for asking, captain, but what exactly would that ‘word’ entail?”

I’m insulted he thinks he can hide his real question from me when it is all but tattooed on his semi-transparent forehead. I’m even more insulted by what that question implies about the kind of man he believes I am. My mouth curls into a snarl.

“When the boy comes down, he knows where to find me. Do him a favour, Mr Harold. Remind him not to keep me waiting.”

28

Crossing the deck shouldn’t hurt so much, but I force my sore and stiff legs into the semblance of an even stride. Just for the duration. Just until I can lock myself into my cabin, my sanctuary from prying eyes and condemning mutters.

Just until I can let go. Door shut, I hold my breath as I clumsily push the bolt into place.

With my wrist, because my concentration is shot, and my hands... My chest heaves, now desperate for air. Every part of me howls with

exhaustion that I refused to acknowledge while the storm lasted. Unable to stop my limbs from trembling, I lean against the wall, relying on it to keep me upright while I unclench my fists.

My uniform comes with kit gloves. Cream-coloured kit gloves. Scraps of it cling to the back of my hands, not white but a dark, rusty red. Especially around the edges, where the helm’s handle bars had torn through the soft leather and left splinters in my bloodied flesh.

Staying our course through rough weather is my duty. Grip the helm, hold her tight. That never posed a problem. Only this time, the rudder had refused to respond, ruling out any conventional steering. Yet through the wheel’s handles, I had wrapped my will around every plank, every line and every nail that comprises my ship. From the stern lantern to the tip of the bowsprit, from the torn banner in the main mast to the weathered timber of her hull, I steered her with my mind, while the teeth of her helm bit into my palms.

I hadn’t fought another storm. More than anything, this time I had fought my own ship.

In the wake of this realisation, all remaining strength drains from my legs. My body collapses and I’m on the floor before my consciousness catches up. Colours and shapes blend into each other as time expands in every direction, through the cabin windows and over the horizon. Ripples of possibilities trail behind the ship like a wake. In some, the storm shredded the sails and broke our masts. In others, the wind and current conspired to make us lose our bearings beyond hope. In one, a monster wave overwhelmed us and dragged us into the deep.

However, none of those possibilities became reality. That was what I fought to accomplish. And I won. As a ship’s captain should.

Saturated light shimmers through the mesh of diamond-shaped window panes. Another sunset. How many have there been while I sat

29

here? The question jolts life back into my limbs. With the wall’s support, I pick myself up off the floor and brush dirt, dust and crinkles from my uniform, and at will, remove the bloodstains from my gloves and the splinters from my flesh. Sufficiently rested, healing damage and injury is a matter of moments.

A captain fights any battle he must, but should never look like he has been in one.

Calculating our position and distance from the fleet, on the other hand, may well take a bit longer.

My furniture and instruments seem to have survived the storm. The maps I was studying when it hit have rolled up and off the map table, along with my pen and compasses, but the lamp and my ink jar are still in place. Of course, it helps that I had them nailed to the desktop.

My workspace once more in order, I assess the ship’s map collection. Without an inkling of our present position, I can only dismiss those that chart familiar waters. What remains are a dozen maps I have never needed before.

Strictly speaking, I don’t require them now, either. The ship’s increasingly irregular bouncing means we are sailing into the surf at an awkward angle. No ship will do so of its own volition, since this kind of pitch and yaw lasting any length of time will make even the most experienced sailor seasick. This means we are indeed within range of the flagship’s wake, and it is pulling us towards the fleet in a direct line.

Convenient, but all the same horrendously embarrassing. I’m the ship’s captain, her navigator, her pilot. Whatever the circumstances, I alone am responsible for our position and our course. Even when the flagship controls our helm.

So I had better find out what lies in store for us. Of all my instruments, the one I most rely on is my pilot sight. All

captains have it, but few know how to use it properly. After all, controlling your mind is much more difficult than working a fancy piece of equipment.

Concentration is key. Unhindered by the constraints of my immediate surroundings, I let my gaze wander through the cabin walls, beyond the sea surface, and into the very fabric of reality. Even a sea that appears empty at a glance is writhing with change. Whatever exists out there, however obscure or distant, my pilot sight will detect it.

30

I extend my reach in every direction. With my mind, I search the seabed, the islands just over the horizon, the currents and the nearby marine life. As expected, I find plenty of distinctive features, but no familiar landmarks. This is truly ‘mare incognitum’ to me, but possibly not to others.

In this sight, each map in my collection appears as an outline, marked with a sense of the information it contains. One among them stands out, glowing slightly brighter than the rest. It’s still pristine, never opened. I do so now, spreading it corner to corner on the map table to study its lines and markings closely. When I concentrate, the lines come to life and unfold a multi-dimensional projection. Shimmering contours, some fainter than others, paint this part of the Eternal Ocean, from the seafloor to tall riffs that breach the surface, at a minute scale but in minute detail. Tiny arrows bob on flowing currents, while on another, higher level, similar arrows mark the prevailing winds.

A translucent miniature vessel, the only one in the vicinity, marks our position and our heading. From it extends a thick, orange line: our present course, set to intercept the purple course of the fleet at the edge of the map, three days from now.

Three trying days, because the map indicates that come nightfall, we’ll reach a narrowing in the seabed that stirs up strong currents along the surface. In a favourable direction.

I calculate our course if we should ride those currents. At once, a new line appears from the ship’s projection, a thin green thread that unfurls according to my thoughts. Should we ride the strong waves with sails stowed, the perpendicular winds in that area wouldn’t bother our progress. When, further north, the current fans out and loses speed, we would be too far east to intercept the fleet, but by then we’d have the wind in our back in the direction of the nearest rendez-vous point.

In short, the actual catching of those currents will be unpleasant, but from thereon out, it would be smooth sailing.

Except the orange line crosses those very currents at a perpendicular angle.

So, we are to go against the tide, with unfavourable winds. Impossible to achieve – or at least ill-advised – if not for the pull of the flagship.

I scratch my chin, contemplating my options. In theory, the flagship’s pull only works while I let it. I could break us away, take the more

31

comfortable route. Only that would mean delaying our return to the fleet by half a day. A negligible delay under normal circumstances, but not when deviating from the given course could be interpreted as an act of defiance.

Of sedition. The map’s projection immerses me. The green line lights up, gentle

against the harsh orange of our current course. It whispers of easier seas and kinder winds. Promising, but in the back of my mind, my training warns me.

What looks easy costs more in the end. A promise is a possibility, not a guarantee. Whereas defying the

Admiral’s orders, implied by the pull of his wake, is guaranteed to have… certain consequences.

A loud knock disrupts my concentration and the map reverts to mere lines on paper. No matter. I have already decided.

With a swipe of my hand, I retract the bolt and let the door edge open. Behind it, Will stands stooped in an attempt to fold himself in the doorway.

“Sorry to interrupt, captain, but you said— Is now convenient for you?”

Tall as a clipper’s mast and with shoulders as broad as a galleon’s gundeck, Will is a warship personified. Yet when I gauge him, he tenses and lowers his gaze in submission.

As is appropriate to his station. Appropriate, yes, but I can’t help but be wary of a warship that flies a

white flag of capitulation at all times. You never know when it is a ruse. “Convenient enough,” I say and gesture him to come in. Will complies, but frets like a coiled spring while he rattles a report

on the repaired sails and the state of our stores. No doubt his nervousness is due to Harold sharing his misconceptions about this conversation. Unfair, because profoundly untrue. Nevertheless, I don’t intent to let Will off the hook.

“We both know,” I begin, “how much of this damage could have been prevented if we hadn’t had to cut the clewlines. We both know that the ship’s bosun is responsible for reefing and securing the sails before a storm.”

He gulps, eyes fixed on the floor. “Yes, captain.”

32

“We also both know that you weren’t at your station when you were needed. And I don’t think you want me to make assumptions about why that might be.”

Now his head snaps up. “What? Captain, I was just—” He falters. “Yes?” “In the bilge,” he finishes, shoulders sagging. “When the storm hit, I

was below deck, tending to the bilge.” “Is that so?” I take a long moment to read him as I would read a map.

“Don’t lie to me.” Big, boyish eyes fly wide open. His shock, at least, is genuine. “I was

down there, captain! I swear. The pumps were struggling, so I—” “That part is true,” I can tell, “but you had solved that issue long

before the storm.” He avoids my gaze, but his memories replay on his face as if projected there. “You stayed in the hold. Aft compartments. Why?”

His imposing frame twists with something akin to contrition. “I-I was looking for something.”

“I see. And what was so important that you forsook your duties, with all due consequences to the ship?”

He screws his eyes shut, but despite his attempt to hide them, tears push past his lashes. The first droplet falls down his face, and with the next comes a torrent of images and emotions that not only overwhelm him, but my pilot sight as well. I attempt to sort through his intentions, but see too many possibilities to make sense of. Instead, I refocus and rely on his words for an explanation. Now the dam within Will broke, those, too, flow abundantly.

“I’m sorry, captain,” he blurts. “I’ve disappointed you from start. I try to do better, I do, but I keep getting it wrong. I keep fucking up, when I don’t mean to!”

He stares at me, pleading. For what? Mercy, or comfort? Good intentions do not discharge people of their culpability, and his culpability is incontestable. My lack of response to his plea seems to dishearten him, but it also dries his tears.

“A while ago,” he continues when he has collected himself, “I remembered I used to have a big sea chest, back before we put up the foremast. I put it away for safekeeping, but… I forgot where. It’s still on board, though. Somewhere aft.” He sags. “Couldn’t find it.”

33

I fold my arms. “So, this mysterious chest is more important to you than the ship, is it?”

“Not at all,” he says, enthusiasm lighting his previously distraught expression. “Finding it is for the good of the ship. What’s in that chest will help me be what I should be. Capable, smart, on top of things.” He eyes me with a cautious smile. “Everything you said you need in a first mate.”

This I had not foreseen. To be honest, I had already abandoned any hope of Will ever resuming the station he gave up in shame. Nothing he did since suggested a serious attempt at restoring himself.

“However commenda—Fuck!” Shifting my weight causes several muscles to cramp. An unwelcome remnant of the storm, no doubt. I try again.

And fail. Will’s face contorts into a complicated expression. “Captain?” “Fine. Perfectly fine,” I growl, keeping still to hide that I can no longer

feel my right leg. Or my hip. As the numbness slowly progresses, I change tactics on the subject at hand. “I would have appreciated your honesty on this matter, Will. Had you told me or Harold, it could have saved us all a lot of grief. However, since you repaired most of the damage the storm did, I’m prepared to let your negligence slide.” Not in the least because my left arm has become unresponsive as well. “Just this once.”

A childlike happiness ignites inside him. Its brilliance is astonishing. Disconcerting, too, if I’m right about what sparked it.

“Harold told you to expect another lashing, didn’t he?” Will’s exuberance dims a little. My heart sinks when he nods. “Please explain to him—” I falter as the numbness takes over my

shoulder and neck, but I can’t afford to leave this hanging. Moisture beading on my hairline, I catch Will’s gaze and hold it.

“I didn’t rip you open for sport, Will. I need you to know that.” An inexplicable smile tugs at one corner of his mouth. “It’s all right,

captain. You only did what you had to. I’ll tell Harold and the men to stop holding it against you.”

“Yes. The men… Of course. Thank you.” Between the spreading numbness in my body and the understanding

in those guileless eyes, I momentarily fail to find a more coherent

34

thought. In the silence, Will flashes me another an easy smile and a greeting, and folds himself through the doorway.

“One more thing,” I call out to his retreating back. Healed; all healed. “Prepare the ship to lie ahull. The fleet is pulling us in on a course that promises to be a bumpy ride.”

“Sure, captain.” He confirms his acknowledgement with nod, and leaves. I shut the door behind him at will, barely time. The bloodstains are starting to seep through my left shirt cuff as well as the right side of my breeches.

“Honestly, fuck this.” I unbutton my cuff to inspect my arm, but the wound responsible for

this blood will have healed over already. Come and gone, with no cause or explanation that my pilot sight can discern. My leg tingles unpleasantly, too. I can only surmise a connection, but at least that blasted numbness ebbed away the moment Will left.

How coincidental. Too convenient not to be related. “For what reason? Spite? Ha!” An incredulous notion, but even if it were true – my mind refuses to

dismiss it entirely – my leniency today may well have put an end to these accursed phantom injuries. A most welcome reprieve, I decide as I clean my uniform yet again.

The worst about lying ahull is the wait. Three days seem an eternity

when I can do little else but stare at the map and the miniature vessel inching along the orange line. Had the sea been smoother, I might have elected to ride out this journey in my hammock, catching some much-needed sleep. As it is, I’m considering nailing down every item not yet fixed to a surface. Myself included. At least a twelve-inch nail sticking through my abdomen would be a plausible reason for the stabbing pain that started as soon as we hit the perpendicular currents.

An eternity. I reread passages from the manuals to keep my mind off the nausea in my stomach and the persistent discomfort in my side. The moment we reach calmer waters cannot come soon enough.

When it does, the ship lists a little into the change of direction. By the time I come on deck to verify the transition, she has steadied and slides gently through the waves on the invisible line that pulls her. I rest my hands loosely on the top deck rail. Her hull took a pounding in recent

35

events, I sense. Regrettable, although some adversity is inevitable on any journey. For now, however, the pummelling against her timber has ceased, as has the stabbing in my side. A spell of peace for us both to enjoy the smooth going, the brisk breeze, and the warmth of the sun shining down.

No sailor could wish for fairer weather, and I count myself lucky to have the experience.

Before long, the ensign behind me flutters on its pole. The wind is shifting, in our favour. An advantage I intend to make use of. Thoughts shape into orders, but I’m interrupted by a sharp tweet from Will’s whistle:

“Sails!” I join Mr Harold on the quarterdeck, where the old man hovers while

peering through a spyglass. “Looks like we found the fleet,” he says, offering me the instrument

to confirm for myself. I could do without the aid, but since having overused my pilot sight

made me lightheaded, I take the spyglass and point it. In the lens, a cluster of white sails glide like clouds across the horizon. Eight warships and their support vessels. Our home.

“About time. Hoist the sails, Mr Harold. Harnessing this wind will cut our time to converge our course with theirs by half.”

Harold bellows the order. Up on the main masthead, Will relays and obeys. Within seconds, the sheets drop down in a cascade of canvas, each sail bulging as it finds the wind. The ship jumps forward and, in a chorus of sighing wood, she picks up speed in a spray of salt water.

We have settled into a steady pace when Will’s whistle pipes the same shrill signal: ‘sails’. I sense the other ship before I spot her.

“It would seem we are not the only ones profiting from the perfect weather conditions.”

Behind us and off to starboard, a barquentine ploughs through the waves at full sail, her course parallel to ours. She barrels ahead, faster than any barque I’ve encountered before. Her ensign is hidden behind her canvas, but who she is matters little when even without a spyglass or pilot sight, I can see her crew preparing for battle.

“They coming after us?” Mr Harold asks, incredulous.

36

That seems to most logical explanation, because a captain who decides their lone barquentine is a match for a fleet of warships has to be either exceptionally dim-witted or dead drunk. Yet the barque shows remarkably little interest in us.

A flash, a mild pressure behind my eyes, and I see five copies of the barques outlined in five different positions. In two, she comes about to head us off at different angles. In two others, she veers off at different points and leaves. One maintains her current course and engages. The last outline glows brighter than the others.

“Not us. She’s after the fleet.” Without debate or delay, Harold pipes general quarters while I grab

the helm and reach out to catch Will’s attention. “Come about, hard starboard. Now!” Will’s response is instantaneous. Lines pull taught; the sails tack; the

ship leans hard to starboard. I spin the helm to ease her into the sharp turn, but after the first two rounds, the wheel resists and every inch costs more effort. As it did before the storm.

Not happening! I have deflected falling masts. Sails, lines, cannons and the fucking

door bolt do my bidding. Damned if I can’t force that blasted rudder to give!

An audible thud and the ship completes her turn, heading off the barque’s line of attack. Any sensible captain would turn to avoid a collision, but she keeps coming at us.

Either I make her turn, or she’ll ram our side. No time to give orders; no time for Will and Harold to follow them.

Guns, now! All broadside pieces are already loaded and ready – no time to question why. Without leaving my station, I direct our guns to take aim.

The barque isn’t even slowing down. No time. No choice. The force of the volley rocks us. Four guns misfire, but the shot spit

out by the rest of the barrels rakes the barque stem to stern at point blank range. Out of sheer shock, she veers off, sails and masts screaming against the strain. What is left of her bow misses our stern by a hair’s width. We narrowly avoid a collision, but this close up, the devastating damage of our one volley is painfully evident.

37

In my defence, I hit her well above the waterline and she is in no immediate danger of sinking. The barque’s captain – if indeed she has one who is functional – neglects to strike her ensign, which gives us the right to pursue her. In fact, the manuals dictate that we should. To what end is beyond me: the parts of her upper decks that survived the cannon balls are on fire and her crew may well be decimated.

Considering the circumstances, I take her surrender as a given. “Mr Harold, resume our original course.” Slowly, our sails turn. So does the helm. While the ship changes

direction, Harold saunters over with a pleased grin that shows his ghostly teeth.

“Pretty slick manoeuvre you pulled off there, captain. Pity the fleet doesn’t seem to’ve noticed.”

Sunlight glints off the masts of our sister ships staying their course, unperturbed. As it should be.

“We all tackle our share of altercations to protect the fleet, Mr Harold. The less effort the rest of our allies dedicate to an enemy, the better.”

“You’re kidding, right?” he snorts. “That captain may’ve had the strategic insight of a codfish, but it was still a bloody big barque we chased off. She could’ve done serious damage to any one of ours if she’d had a chance. And you didn’t give her one.”

“As was my intention. Repelling hostile ships is our duty. It’s what we are built to do.”

“True, true. Still, just by ourselves, I mean—” I stop listening when Will approaches. He obviously carries words on

the tip of his tongue, but swallows them as soon as I lay eyes on him. “I’m not in the mood for guessing games, Will. Out with it.” “We took no direct hits, captain. Well, of course you’re already aware

of that. But the thing is…” He gulps. “Remember I mentioned how the braces of the foremast tops’l started fraying in the storm?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Splendid. They both snapped?” “Uhm, yeah. Didn’t survive the sharp tacking. The course braces

won’t last much longer, either, I’m afraid.” Indeed the foremast’s topsail is furled, its yard standing at an angle

from the rest. “I managed to keep them together while we came about,” Will adds

quickly, as if anticipating my inquiry why none of this hindered our

38

manoeuvre. “But they’re unsalvageable now. I’m sorry, captain. I don’t know why they—”

“Of course not,” I scoff. What has he to be sorry for when I should have sensed the lines had snapped? “Just replace those four braces and be done with it.”

A look of panic. “I-I can’t.” “Really? Can’t, or won’t?” “I swear I would’ve done so sooner, but I’ve nothing to replace them

with. We’ve been clean out of spare cable since the storm.” Damn, there is that. “We’re almost back with the fleet, though, aren’t we?” he soldiers on.

“Surely they can spare some materials until we can stock up for ourselves?”

“Are you out of your mind?” Despite towering over me, Will cringes as if struck. A sorry sight in more ways than one. “In a well-organised fleet, ships don’t mooch off each other,” I add with less venom. “You really should know that by now.”

“Yes, captain. Sorry.” “Never mind. On your way.” That is all the encouragement he needs to bolt, and scamper up the

foremast shrouds. “You know, captain,” Harold drawls, “it’s not the boy’s fault that

we’re short on cable.” “I know.” “Or that we used the last of our spare canvas to replace the main

t’gallant last month.” “I know.” “Or that we’re running low on tar for caulking because everywhere

the timber’s gone black, the joints are bottomless pits. Or—” “Yes, I get your point!” My face burns furiously. “You will have your

supplies. I’ll see to it.” Harold arches his brow. “That’s what you said weeks ago, captain.” And we have passed three suitable opportunities to restock since. Yes,

yes, I know! I had planned to replenish our stores at one of those trading posts, but the fleet had moved on, leaving us no time to dock and close a deal, never mind take cargo on board. And then there was the storm, and—

39

Overhead, Will sits astride the second yard of the foremast and checks the knots that keep it in place. Not the regulatory method to secure a yard, but full marks for creativity. The boy knows his ropes, and how to make up for a decided lack of them.

Fact remains that he shouldn’t have to. “Leave this with me,” I tell Harold again, and retreat to the cabin. The door slams shut, an echo of my anger. I prompt the map of this

area to unfold on the map table. It comes to life and, at my instigation, highlights all nearby restocking opportunities. Only a cluster of ships responds. A merchant fleet, in a bay several days from here and leagues off course. Much further than the leeway the Admiral’s wake gives us.

“Damn it, Will. Why did you have to be right?” You are captain. You are responsible. That I am, so I close my eyes and hail the Admiral’s flagship. While

signal flags, shutter lights or telegraph are the standard methods of communication between ships at full sea, my training taught me a less common yet highly effective one, using the principles of my pilot sight. Concentrating on presenting my request, I shift my thoughts beyond the ship, to the sleek tall flagship that heads our fleet.

Despite their majestic countenance, with five skyscraper masts and innumerable sails, clippers are rarely the flagship of a fleet of warships. Yet our Admiral, our fleet leader and my mentor, must have his reasons. I haven’t been a captain long enough to understand his motivations, but knowing him, the clipper’s speed and manoeuvrability may well have been deciding factors in his unorthodox choice.

Around me, the cabin fades as my consciousness slides across the threshold of a pristine white expanse that has no semblance of space. My feet touch no floor, but I stand to attention with utmost reverence while I hail the Admiral for an audience.

Before long, he appears. In keeping with his custom, he wears an unadorned, austere uniform that doesn’t betray his rank or experience. His greying hair and spectacles suggest he is at least twice my age, although the comparison is pointless when standing before him often leaves me looking younger than my years.

More important is his expression: his annoyance betrays my call interrupted him. I bow in greeting, in apology, and in gratitude for his answer.

40

“There you are,” he says before I have a chance to straighten up. “I had been meaning to call on you on several issues.”

“I appreciate it when you do, sir.” Indeed, not a day goes by when he doesn’t reach out to my mind to impart bits of indispensable advice that advance my understanding of seamanship. Or reprimand me.

“Your absence these past days highly inconvenienced your fellows,” his intonation conveys the depth of this understatement, “but at least you obeyed my orders take the shortest possible route back.”

What looks easy costs more in the end. Pleased with myself – not to say relieved – to have chosen the orange

line over the green one, I nod. “Naturally, sir.” “A small consolation, that,” he says pointedly. “I did warn you about

the dangers of allowing yourself to be side-tracked, didn’t I, captain?” “You did, sir, but the storm that blew us off course developed faster

than I anticipated.” “Well, then you didn’t anticipate well enough.” I grimace. “Yes, sir.” Without a further thought, he abandons the topic, leafing through the

sheets of paper in his hand instead. I prepare to present my request when he suddenly looks at me.

“By the way, you handled yourself well out there today.” I blink, nonplussed, although my chest swells a little. “The skirmish

with the barque?” He had taken note of that incident? “Indeed. Well met, that. The barque was never a real threat to the fleet,

of course, but still, well met.” I accept the compliment with a light bow, but the Admiral’s attention

is already on the next topic: “About this urgent request of yours, I thought we had discussed this

to finality. You carry responsibility for your ship’s supplies. You alone. No one else.”

“I take that responsibility seriously, sir,” I begin while frantically searching to circumvent his objections and avoid outright dismissal. “I… meant to ask you when we can expect to dock at a trading post or cross ways with a merchant fleet.”

“As you already deducted from your maps, not for some time.”

41

His pilot sight must have picked up my thoughts, disarming my arguments before I can make them. I grit my teeth. You can’t circumvent someone who reads your mind, only go in headlong:

“Sir, with all due respect, my ship is running short on shot, powder, cable, and other basic maintenance material.”

“A detour will just waste more of what you don’t have,” the Admiral states with palpable disinterest. “How can you be running short, anyway? A captain should pay out all lines to the bitter end and then some before considering replacements. With the right mindset, any equipment can outlast itself twice.”

An adage straight from the manuals. One Will must have taken to heart, given his improvisational wizardry to make ends meet. Creativity notwithstanding, neither he nor I can conjure up spare cable out of thin air.

“We are beyond the bitter end, sir.” Idiot! Forget to stow the sails, forget to replenish dwindling stocks. Both constitutes negligence. You are as culpable as you claim Will to be. I blink twice. “Sorry?”

The Admiral regards me through his spectacles. “You were making a point, I believe.”

“Yes. That is to say…” Had the accusation been his or mine? No matter. “That is to say our rigging sustained damage after the storm and the skirmish. Our manoeuvrability is compromised. We need to replace several braces immediately, as well as—”

“Need, need,” he huffs, rolling his documents into a cylinder. “You are so quick to assume your ship need all kinds of aids to function. Like when you broke formation last year because some quack offered you paint for that black tarnish you claim has infected your timber.”

Nothing excuses a slip of control. Nervous sweat trickles down the back of my neck. “I understand, sir,

but in that particular case, the need was real. Two years of following instructions didn’t obtain the results you describe in the manual. Where else then could I turn but to outside parties?”

“They know nothing!” The rolled-up papers snap through the air like a whip. An explosion is inevitable, it seems, but then the Admiral leans back, by all appearances sitting on an invisible desk while he continues in a more amicable tone of voice.

42

“Listen to me and save yourself the hassle. Expensive chemicals with magic properties are a hoax. You can’t combat mould that way. A tarnish of any kind only spreads through a ship because its captain lets it. So, the solution is simple: don’t let it spread. And if the instructions in the manual had no effect, that goes to prove the weathering you’re experiencing isn’t anything serious.” He pauses to smile at me, the way he did when I was still in training. “Did you know that the galleon has had issues with her timber turning black since putting up her foremast? She didn’t sink, did she? That proves such tarnish is little more than a nuisance.”

Harold’s concerns about the caulking spring to mind, but I can’t hold the thought when a sudden sting lances through my arm.

“As for your oh-so desperate need to restock,” the Admiral adds, “had you paid attention to your training, you would be able to stretch your reserves further.”

A familiar tune. One I live by, circumstances permitting. They no longer do.

“There you go again,” he scoffs, “giving up at the first sign of difficulty. Did I teach you nothing? An accomplished captain can make his ship—?”

“—do anything for him,” I finish in his deliberate pause. “Exactly. But therein lies the rub.” He puts one foot down, his posture

terse. “You are not an accomplished captain, James. You’re barely a competent one. And you know it. You must know. After all, why else would you tether yourself to my wake?”

Around us, a timeless cloud of possibilities glows through the white. My thoughts are crushed by the cramps that dig into my arm like winding rope, but I force myself to focus. Past, present and possible events spread out like stars in the night sky, blinking in and out of existence as opportunities arise and dissipate.

Several stars shine brighter, the Admiral’s way of drawing my attention to what they signify. Past choices I made, all similar in nature and resolution. I see half a dozen versions of my ship break away from as many fleets in as many times, investigating as many possible threats, only to be harassed while delivering again that number of reports. Thus every version of events cumulates in the same conclusion: I have abandoned the fleet I pledged loyalty to, and will do so again.

43

“Never.” My voice breaks on the word. “I serve and protect the fleet, and you, sir. I would never abandon you!”

The stars fade, and I’m lost in the void. “You have great potential,” the Admiral says. His hum of approval

brings me back to the present. “I taught you navigation. How to find safe routes and shipping lanes. How to use the maps I gave you and how to see what cannot be detected with the naked eye. But you don’t know what you see, and you lack experience to make judgment calls. Until then, your ship is like those who have weak captains. The ships that are overrun by their crew, that cannot navigate and must travel in convoys because they can only survive when following in another’s wake.” He puts his hand on my shoulder. “I will be your pilot, like I am for our galleon, and indeed most ships in my fleet. For as long as you need it.”

His conviction bears down on me like a warm blanket of assurance. No insecurity, no pain. The bliss of fair weather.

Too soon colours bleed through the white void, putting a distance between me and everything else. When I look up, I’m on my knees on the floor of my cabin. Beneath me, the ship leans to starboard, changing direction by a few degrees. Still half-stunned, I deploy my pilot sight to gauge our new heading. It’s too far for my fragmented concentration to discern, but I do see the fleet making the same manoeuvre with us, all following the flagship’s lead.

For your information, captain, the Admiral announces across the ethereal connection, we are adjusting course to meet a small merchant fleet in a few days.

The connection severs, leaving me in a daze. The Admiral labelled me incompetent and wasteful, refused to go out of his way to let us restock and refit. Yet now he gives me exactly what I need? How? Better, why?

You don’t know what you see. I must have overlooked a crucial step. Seeing the puzzle, but missing

too many pieces to put it together. You lack experience to make judgment calls. An evident truth. I clamber to my feet as fast as I can, smoothing down

any wrinkles in my countenance. Within the privacy of my mind, I can rely on the Admiral’s guidance to make up for my shortcomings, but Harold and Will cannot believe me weak. Not for a moment.

The fate of the ship rides on it.

44

45

46

Chapter 3

ROM THEIR POSITIONS standing side by side on the yards, the men cheer as our fleet approaches the cluster of merchantmen lying at anchor in the bay. The merchants ignore our hailing at first,

but then plenty of smaller vessels are unnerved by a fleet of battleships pulling in. We shut the gun ports and lined up in plain view to convince them of our good intentions. Usually that works, and it works this time, too. The largest merchantman flies a signal welcoming us, and in turn, our flagship signals us to commence trading.

I climb to my favourite spot, in the top of the main mast. Gulls swoop past me left and right like airborne dolphins, and the wind blows through my shirt and breeches, tugging at them as if to invite me to play along.

“I’d love to,” I reply when a gull screeches, “but I’ve got work to do.” Up here, alone with our jack, I have an amazing view of the bay and

the mosaic of different ships gathered here. Merchantmen of various sizes and types are scattered throughout, most of them hooked up to customers so the two vessels don’t drift apart while they do business and transfer the cargo: motorised boats taking on drums of fuel; steel-hulled ships bartering for bolts and welding torches. Judging by the signals, the ironclad to the left has trouble explaining what ammunition she needs, while to the back, two heavy cog ships and a container ship are transferring their cargo to merchant vessels instead, resupplying them with goods to trade with others.

I lean against the mast until the folds of the jack flying beside me feel like an embrace. Being on a battleship sailing a fleet of battleships and converted merchantmen, I often forget how diverse the ships and activities on the Eternal Ocean are. I wish I had more time to enjoy the view – maybe even risk participating – but that’s not what we’re here for.

Finding a suitable trading partner is a dance of offers and requirements, of lists and agreements. Harold raised our signal line, summarising in a handful of colours what we need. With the men going about their duties without me monitoring them, I stay aloft to keep a

F

47

lookout for a fluyt or a paddle steamer. Both types are large enough to carry the materials we’re after, and enough of it.

The first to reach us, however, are the smaller, faster ketches, xebecs and yachts. They flit between the frigates and barques, signalling ferociously what they have on offer without reading what that ship is asking for. They don’t always move on when told, but this far above the fray, their chatter doesn’t bother me.

What does bother me, and increasingly so, is James’s foul mood. It’s not new, this brooding, but it puts me on edge that he can hide it

so well. He has mastered the art of fretting and pacing without moving a muscle. Amazing if it wasn’t so scary. Harold doesn’t notice a thing, even if the echoes of James’s emotions crawl under my skin, like during that meeting the other day. It’s not just when I can see him, either. Even blindfolded and through the bulkheads I can tell whether he is pleased, annoyed, upset or angry.

And right now, he is agitated. I have no clue why – I wish I did – but something is eating at him.

I could go down and ask him. Talk to him, as the men have suggested I should more often. No point, though. James never shares what’s on his mind, and if he answers me at all, it’ll be an order to complete our transactions.

Which proves to be difficult. From the deck, Harold has hailed a number of potential traders, but they pass us by, preferring to serve other ships over dealing with us. No idea why merchantmen are always so fastidious. No idea, either, why our frigate is less appealing than other battleships of the same class and flying the ensign of the same fleet. I mean, our galleon is far more imposing than the rest of us!

Only the galleon didn’t enter the bay. From my vantage point, I now see that she dropped anchor a good distance away from the trading post’s hustle and bustle. Not unusual, since she needs deeper waters than these and carries so much in her massive hold that she rarely needs to restock, even if she also carries supplies for the Admiral’s clipper. That is why the flagship is now moored to the galleon rather than to one of the merchantmen, isn’t it? Odd how I never noticed that before. But then the galleon supplied my ship, too, when it was smaller.

48

A shrill tone from Harold’s whistle shoots up, spelling my name and calling me down to assist with the schooner slowly coming alongside us.

“They are willing to trade,” Harold says when I hop onto the deck beside him, “but they won’t let us hook up for it.”

Attaching the vessels to each other with boarding hooks is standard procedure during trading. It’s just for stability, but many merchantmen regard battleships as glorified privateers and won’t risk making any kind of connection. The mood on board darkens noticeably. Between the crew grumbling and the captain radiating a strange oppressiveness, I’m not sure whose dismay is stronger. I share their disappointment, surely, but this is life. We’ll just have to walk on eggshells again.

“We’ve done this before,” I holler at the men to drown out their disgruntled muttering. “Put down the gangplank and secure it tightly at our end only. Then everyone form a line and we’ll get this done fast. Lars, Donald, prepare the main’s yardarm to make a crane for the bulk materials.”

On the schooner, the merchant’s crew make their own preparations, too. We’re within vocal range now, and Harold discusses our needs with their first mate. Battleships rarely have goods or treasure to trade, but information can be just as valuable. Our logbooks contain details of our recent routes, ships we encountered, as well as other news that their fleet will want to know about – pirates, storms, other trading stations, non-trading cargo ships looking to supply merchantmen, potential customers. James keeps meticulously detailed records, so what we have to offer is valuable enough to cover what we’re asking for.

Yet Harold shakes his head at me when the merchantman’s first mate disappears. “They have everything we need, but he’s gone to fetch their commander to make the deal.”

“That’s normal, isn’t it?” “To sign off on the final deal, yes. Not to barter over the price of

standard goods.” In hindsight, I should’ve expected this when they refused to let us

hook up. “Let’s just try to sort this without involving our captain,” I reply, already feeling James’s attention sinking into me like tenterhooks.

49

A light but sharp voice cuts in. “So, you lot want to trade, is that right?”

With practised ease, Harold puts on his best smile. “Top of the morning, ma’am,” he says, nudging me to nod a greeting as well.

I do, although I can’t help but gawk. Ours is an all-male crew. While that’s what I’m used to, the merchantman’s commander reminds me it’s really an anomaly. She emits confidence with the force of a sledge hammer and next to her flamboyant dress, our smudged white-and-blue uniforms are dull as driftwood. Fortunately, Harold isn’t as easily impressed as I.

“I took the liberty of providing your man with a list of our requirements,” Harold says, “as well as the pertinent particulars from our logbooks. You’ll find that we can offer a handsome payment, considering we need nothing special.”

“So I see.” She holds up the list and begins to inspect it at her leisure. I hold my breath. This kind of display never bodes well for

transactions. I’ve seen the list Harold drafted with the captain’s approval, and it’s tight. If she decides to haggle on quantities, we’ve got a problem.

I cast a glance over my shoulder. James stands at the helm, keeping back while Harold and I deal with the merchant, but his expression betrays that he hears every word that’s being said. I taste his displeasure at the back of my throat, so I avert my gaze. To the merchant’s commander, who is staring at the deal we propose as if it’s stinking seaweed hitched to her hull. She takes a pen out of the hair bun and scrawls on the paper.

Fuck. “She’s changing the numbers,” I whisper urgently at Harold. “Patience, lad. I always ask for more than we truly need.” “Not this time, you didn’t!” “Hush! We’ll close a good deal, you’ll see.” With a flourish, the commander holds out the amended list. Harold

pales; I feel sick. What she left us doesn’t begin to cover our most essential needs.

“Ma’am, with all due respect, we can’t even consider accepting this offer,” Harold begins.

“Then make me a better one.”

50

“We proposed a fair deal for a standard order.” “The materials are standard, yes. The quantities are not. Filling your

order would deplete our stores. That costs us, and therefore it costs you.”

“Is there a problem, ma’am?” James’s low voice drawls behind me. Fuck! “It’s nothing, captain,” Harold says before I can. “The commander

raised a valid concern, but that won’t stand in the way of reaching a transaction that is to our mutual satisfaction.”

“Quite right. It won’t.” James steps onto the gangplank. Harold tries to stop him – we’re not hooked up, they don’t trust us; this is unsafe in so many ways! – but the captain saunters over, hand on his sabre, to stand right in front of the commander. He never touches her vessel, not even a line – he’s a stickler for rules, thank god – but his looming proximity unsettles her, and her crew. The proverbial eggshells shatter under his boots.

“Our requirements aren’t extravagant, ma’am. Our offer is a usual exchange for what we requested. Is there a particular reason you think it appropriate to short-change a valid trading partner?”

His voice is all calm weather and smooth sailing, but I can feel him calculating if we have enough shot left to blast a hole in her hull. Small wonder the other merchant ships are drifting away, putting more distance between them and us. So is our own fleet, I note.

“Captain…” My plea is no more than a sigh, but I sense that he heard me. Heard me and ignores the warning by choice.

The merchantman’s commander, not to be outdone by James’s bravado, puffs out her chest. “I trade with whomever I chose and however I chose, captain,” she sneers.

James inclines his head a fraction, veining politeness. “Like every other ship in this bay, we seek a fair deal.” His fingers rap on the pommel of his sabre. “You and I both know that your proposal is anything but fair.”

“I will not be bullied into a transaction!” “No one is bullying you, ma’am,” James retorts, making a show of his

exasperation. “My ship has requirements. It is my responsibility to see those fulfilled. In a fair trade. Which this,” he gestures at the defiled list, “is not.”

51

The commander stares him down, but no one glares with more compelling intensity than our captain: she takes out her pen again. His approach isn’t subtle, but it gets the job done.

A job he originally entrusted to me. Only I couldn’t convince that commander to undo the changes she had made to our list. He did.

“My final offer,” the commander spits, handing over the list one last time.

James reads it, snatches her pen and scrawls his signature on the bottom. Handing it back, he tenses briefly. At the same moment, our lookout yells that the flagship is signalling the fleet’s departure.

“Have the goods transferred to my ship at once,” James growls. The commander gives him a curt look. “In a hurry, captain? Delivery

needs time, you know.” He curses her, but when he strides back and leaps onto our deck, it is

me he addresses: “Make certain you load every last item on that list. You have an hour.”

HE INSTANT I declare the witch’s proposal unfair, a disgusting warmth begins to spread across my waist. As she protests, it expands along my belt, to my sides. Too fast to be nervous

sweat. Too much, too. She says she won’t be bullied. Neither will I. Hidden from sight by three layers of fabric, my now sodden shirt sticks against my skin, but I keep a straight face despite the undeniable wound in my abdomen vomiting lukewarm blood into my shirt and vest.

I yank the amended paper form her fingers and sign it, while in the back of my mind, I hear the Admiral’s order to weigh anchor.

The wound tingles; wet fabric flushes warm. Any time now, the blood will soak through my coat. Where I can’t hide it.

Fuck! Fuck that cargo, fuck imminent departure. I need my uniform off. Now!

What presence of mind prevails orders Will to start loading. The next conscious moment, I’m in my cabin, door locked, and struggling out of my coat. It looks perfectly normal on the outside, but the felt lining is as soaked as the enormous dark patch on my vest. Oh, God. So much blood. So much—!

Don’t panic.

T

52

Fuck! No, don’t panic. Steady. I’ve had worse. Remember? I’ve had worse. This one sentence spins through my head while my trembling fingers

fight the slick buttons of my vest. In vain. Control slips; the last two buttons shoot away as I rip the vest open and off my back. It leaves repulsive smears everywhere, but my shirt… Blood drips from the drenched linen, falling in splatters on my breeches, my boots, and the floorboards.

“Shit!” So much blood! Gun shot. Only a gun shot. That sly, vindictive bitch! She must have

shot me. I never heard a pistol fire or felt the bullet penetrate, but how else could she—?

My thoughts crash to a halt with a single sound: “Will!” He’s still out there, with her. Alone. Harold is safe; she can’t shoot a

ghost. But Will…

OU HAVE AN hour.” His word final, James stomps off. I whistle through my teeth. An hour? Sure. It’ll be damn tight, but we’ve worked on impossible schedules before.

It’s not as if we’ve got much of a choice. At my signal, the men open the hatches and form a line of pulleys,

lifts, and strong backs between the deck and the hold. Out of habit, Harold oversees the weight distribution while I focus on hauling the new cargo on board in the first place. I roll my shoulders, stretch my arms, and take up position on the gangplank.

“Let’s have it,” I call out to the merchantman’s boatswain. “What? All this? You’ll need at least three hours,” he yells back,

laughing while he and his men make wagers with each other. “Don’t,” I warn them. “You’ll lose.” “You’re on,” says the boatswain, and gestures his men to hand me our

new purchases. Tied to our bulwark only, the gangplank dips when I take a crate or a

sack, wobbles as the combined weight shifts from one end to the other, and kicks upwards every time I pass the item on to the next man in our

“Y

53

line. Like I’m moving crates along a tightrope. It’s a precarious balance act, but once I found my footing, I speed up.

“C’mon, you tortoises! Stop dallying to win your bet.” The crew of the merchantman do respond, feeding me cargo almost

faster than I can take it off their hands, just to challenge me. Hoping they can make me break my flow or drop something. I don’t, but then difficult part is still to come.

Usually, the bulk cargo is lifted on board with the crane. Except that since we’re racing the clock until departure, Harold had Timothy and Carl dismantle the crane to give us use of the main course sail to compensate for the lack of foremast sails.

“Looks like you’re stuck,” the merchantman’s boatswain jeers. “Shut up and get on with it.” “How? You have no crane and you’re not using ours.” “Fine! Just hand me the goods, in the largest bundles your lot can

handle.” They do, hesitantly at first. They need four men to lift the timbers and

canvas up to me, and we need four men to receive them at our end, but I haul the loads across by myself. Too large and too heavy, shifting the bulk cargo takes every bit of my concentration. Between dropping one load and fetching the next, I’m not aware of how much time is left, but my mates cheer me on and neither Harold nor James have called departure. Good, because I’m not done yet.

Pumped up after the bulk goods, I make short work of the last item on our list: the munition boxes. Each contains twelve 12-pound balls, about as much as one man can carry. I stack them and bring them on board four at a time. The merchantman’s crew tease and distract me. Halfway, my arms and back scream under the strain. Still I don’t miss a beat. I’ll be sore as Hell for the next few days, but at last we have everything we ordered on board, stowed and secured. With time to spare.

I barely feel my arms anymore when I flip off the boatswain. “Told ya you’d lose!” I yell over Harold’s whistle to weigh anchor. I see them grumble, but the distance between us and them is growing as we slowly bank to port, away from the merchantman and away the trading post. The ship falls in with the fleet’s wake even before the sails are set.

The operational ones, at least.

54

“Jerry!” My shoulder twinges when I gesture the rigger to come over. “We’ll need to mend those broken braces as soon as possible. Can you bring up some of the new cable and give me a hand?”

“Nope.” Jerry grins and I follow his pointing finger up to the forward masthead. “While you were showing off, Lars and Carl went ahead and started refitting.”

A smile of relief treks all the way down my neck. “Great. Well done,” I say, and let out a long sigh. Right then, the deck tilts and I have to grab a nearby line to keep on my feet. “Wow! Why’s the ship swaying like that?”

“S not the ship, it’s you,” Jerry says, still smirking. “Must be all that showing off taking its toll.”

Just as I want to retort, Harold comes over and jovially slaps my shoulder. My winces amuse them greatly.

“Right. That toll,” I groan. “Better hop down to the infirmary, lad,” Harold chuckles. “I think

Richard’s already expecting a visit from you.”

LUMPED IN MY chair; mind spinning; shaking hands clutch my dagger. I can’t help anyone while bleeding out myself, so I cut open the front of my shirt. Under the dark red smudges, I

recognise every line, every arch of my chest. Even the ridges of the circular scar on my solar plexus I know by heart. But not the small wound, half an inch beneath my ribs, spilling fresh blood with every breathe I take.

Rivulets become currents, currents become seas, and seas become galaxies that stretch on forever. My head swims among the stars. Free, untethered. Without aim, without…

“Damn.” Deep breath. “Fucking blood loss…” The rasp of my voice roots me in my seat, and I force myself to focus.

On removing the bullet from my body. On stemming the blood still trickling between my fingers. On Will.

Will. The stars show my pilot sight he is hurt. I can’t tell how or how badly, but the merchantman hurt him.

Her crew hurt mine!

S

55

Indignation sits me bolt upright. A lancing pain pins me down again, gasping. Lights and shadows chase each other across the walls, like stars playing tag. Between them, I see Will outlined against the night sky. I see the blood pouring down his back, and a wound the size of cannon ball, clean through his chest.

This is your fault. He is your crew, your responsibility. Your fault! Rock-hard determination rises from unfathomable depths, shattering

pain and confusion like so much glass. I stand up, unwavering, and touch the edge of the shot wound.

Such an insignificant injury, really. The pain is annoying, the loss of blood leaves a mess, but little else. I give it no choice but to heal, instantly. It does. Whole again, I peel off the tattered shirt and toss it in the corner with the rest of my ruined uniform to mend at a later date. Right now, my attention is needed elsewhere.

A rap; the cabin door begins to open. At my will, the hinges creak and jam. In the two heartbeats this buys

me, I wash off the blood, clean my breeches, and conjure up a brand-new shirt and new gloves. I even manage to do up the first buttons of a new vest before Harold pushes through and shows himself in.

“Door could use some oil, methinks,” he remarks with a backward glance. “What I meant to say is we got all the items you jostled that lady into selling us. Loading it all took some special effort, but we have what we need, the most urgent refitting’s being done as we speak, and we’re on course with the fleet. All by the book.”

Liar. What he hides behind the sarcasm and the pregnant pause, I already

saw. Harold is a good sailor, but petty. He will want the satisfaction of holding me accountable for what happened to Will. Which is no more than I deserve. So I wait for him to make his move.

“Anyway, captain, just so you know.” “Wait. That’s it?” He gives me a puzzled look. “What else did you expect?” “Will. How is he holding up?” “You noticed, huh?” The old man’s face widens almost cheerfully.

“He’ll be aching for a while. Carrying munition crates does a number on anyone’s back, never mind carrying them in stacks. He’s in galley

56

now, by the stove. Something about warmth being beneficial for sore muscles, apparently. He’ll be right as rain before you know it.”

“I see.” But that isn’t what my pilot sight detected. You don’t know what you see. “The merchantman’s crew didn’t hurt him, then.” Harold’s grin fades too quickly. “No one ever laid a hand on the lad.”

A moment’s indecision, but then he shakes his head. “I should let you get on with your work, captain. I’ll drop in later and fill you in on how the refitting is coming along.” He turns to leave. “And I’ll send someone to fix those hinges.”

Y NECK CREAKS like taut ropes when I role my shoulders. Richard set me up in the galley after we departed, doctor’s orders. The heat from the cooking fire would do my

cramped back good, he said. Night falls slowly, like the tide coming in. The stove has burned low

since the crew finished dinner, but the galley is warmed by a handful of my mates. Rain rattles on the foredeck above us while they sit at the suspended table nearest the stove, drinking and laughing around a single lantern. They ridicule the merchantman’s crew, who become more idiotic and astonished with every telling.

I nurse the rum in my tin tankard and listen to my mates’ jeers. Between the glee and the jokes, a darker tone rises. Jibes become sneers, then outright derision. The shadows around us lean in, too, until unspoken disappointment claims the galley in silence. I hold still under this heavy blanket, all air cut off.

“Fuckin’ wankers.” David curses into his mug, but his words break the atmosphere like

bullets through a window. Murmurs of agreement bounce back and forth across the table, and I can breathe again.

“Those stupid sods warned them off,” says Paul, hissing his s’s through the massive gap between his front teeth. “I sat watch throughout. I saw those bloody ketches flipping signals to the merchantmen. That they shouldn’t approach us.”

“Ketches always pull such pranks,” I say. “They’re terrible gossips. Just ignore them.”

M

57

“Like you can,” Lars snorts, his beard wet with liquor. I shrug at him, but truth bites all the same.

Lars grunts his indignation when Paul kicks him under the table. “You wouldn’t ignore them, either. Not this time. You know what one

of those bitches said? That we’re a plague ship!” Paul’s claim triggers a flurry of curses. My jaw works, but I won’t add

to their griping while I’m not sure what happened, or why. Although chances are I’ll never find an answer.

In my mind, groups of tiny boats cluster together in the shallows. Tied up to each other with grapples and ropes, they form a pontoon. Like a cloud of algae, they bob on the water surface while their crews lean over the sides to exchange stories of where their fleets have taken them. All night long. I remember steering to join to. The kind ones merely refused to anchor my grapples, but most ignored me. Unless they had guns fitted and used me for target practice.

“Will? Oi, Will!” I blink and find four pairs of eyes on me. Gunfire becomes clattering

rain and the memory fades to the background. Only its bitterness doesn’t.

“Why bother getting angry?” I say, sensing the question I didn’t hear. “It’s the same of story, time and again, isn’t it? Other ships make excuses not to approach us, and those that do, make more excuses not to hook up. That’s the dance, and we dance it.”

“Then how come the rest of the fleet gets a pass?” Paul insists. “How come we have to fight to get the cargo we already paid for, and others don’t?”

Before, I leaned on the table. Now I drive my elbows into the cragged wood, my shoulders so tense they’re about to burst the seams of my shirt. I owe my men an explanation for what happened today, and so many days before. They deserve an answer to their questions; the same questions I have asked the fleet over and over when I was skipper.

Study the manuals, they had said. Except the paragraphs they pointed out could be written in an alien language for all the sense they made.

“It doesn’t matter,” I growl and finish my rum. “We got what we needed from that merchantman. That’s what counts.”

David glares at me through the lantern’s sooth-stained glass. “The only ship in that fleet willing to trade with us, and he held up her

58

commander at gunpoint,” the master armorer says laconically. “Bet your arse no ship of theirs’ll ever want to have anything to do with us again.”

“Well, fuck them!” The men start, the table and the floor resonate. I hadn’t meant to shout,

but David doesn’t remember what I do, so he can’t understand why James’s actions today are so important.

A tiny boat, long ago. Unarmed, under fire from half a dozen other boats. An enormous hundred-gun galleon that refused to come to my aid, a sleek flagship insisting all this was perfectly normal, and dents in my hull that neither of them would help mend.

Four gazes catch mine, some with effort. Waiting. My stubble catches in the callouses on my palm as I run my hand over my face.

“Look, fair’s fair, right? That commander tried to cheat us and her crew deliberately stalled the transfer. If our captain’s negotiation tactics upset them so, they shouldn’t have tried to fuck with us in the first place.”

Sullen agreement rumbles around, smoothed down by the last drops of rum.

“Why don’t those bloody merchants just cooperate?” slurs Craig, more than a little drunk. “’S not like we’re asking for anything out of the ordinary, is it? Fair’s fair, an’ all that, but this’s not fair.”

“Not by a long shot,” I agree with a passable smile, “but you’d best go sleep off your drink. You’re on the next watch.”

Paul, Lars and David help Craig to his feet, and with some stumbles and a half-hearted song, they retire below.

My hammock awaits down on the orlop deck, too, but I rarely use it. For some reason, I don’t seem to need sleep the way the rest of the crew does. Even James sleeps, although probably less than he should. I can sense he’s still awake now, although locked away in his cabin, he might as well be on the other side of the Ocean.

Alone for the night, I tidy up the galley and stir up the embers in the stove to keep me company until daybreak. Maybe those sparse flames can loosen my stiff back a bit more before the morning watch.

I’m still trying to find a comfortable position by the fire when the clunk of boots coming into the galley puts me on alert: the night watch

59

only come and find me if something’s wrong. I’m already halfway to my feet when Harold steps into the lantern’s circle of light.

“Thought I might find you here.” “Trouble? The rigging’s done, but if Simon’s team need more

caulking—” He swings one leg over the bench closest to me and plops down like

a sack of beans. “Nah, Simon’s up to his eyeballs in worn rope to pick apart, courtesy of the riggers. So you enjoy that nice, warm fire a bit longer. It’s been a long day for all of us.”

I settle back in front of the stove, unconvinced by Harold’s reassurance when he takes a small flask from his vest pocket.

“If all’s well, why’re you still up?” He indulges himself in his private whiskey, smacking his lips.

“Nothing gets by you, does it?” “Only half the ocean and everyone on it,” I snort at my own expense.

“Seriously, how can a man feel every gush of wind tickling our canvas, every grumble among my mates, yet be clueless when a merchantman’s about to fuck him over?”

“You were on to them before I was.” “So? I saw it happen! I saw what she was doing, and still I—” I rake

my nails over my scalp. “I panicked, Harold. That commander walked up to us, and I panicked.”

“She was a feisty one, I’ll grant you that.” “Who cares? She tried to screw us, and I did nothing!” Harold sighs. “You’re too harsh on yourself, lad. Negotiations are

always a headache, and it was the two of us conducting this one. It wasn’t your fault.”

“But I panicked! Harold, I panicked and she noticed. Her crew noticed, our crew noticed. And James!” My stomach turns. “The captain shouldn’t have had to step in. He salvaged the situation, thank god, but at what price? It’s not as if we’ve got a lot of trade posts to choose from in the first place. Small wonder he’s so fucking pissed off!”

“Ah. So that’s what this is about.” Harold takes another sip from his flask. “You had his attention, all right. Only when I spoke with him after we’d left the bay, he wasn’t angry. Rather, I believe he was rather concerned.”

60

“Concerned? Yeah, likely.” The lantern on the table casts a sharp shadow on the floor next to me. I trace its edge with my finger. “Just his worry that I couldn’t finish the loading anymore than I could negotiate the deal.”

“He never mentioned the cargo. Just asked after your wellbeing. Twice.”

“Pull the other one,” I growl. “It’s got bells on.” Harold leans on his knees and reaches over. “I’m not jesting, Will.

Not about something you’re so invested in.” Glancing sideways, the lantern’s orange glow reflects on the polished

metal of the flask he holds out to me, and on the relief on his face when I accept the offer.

“The captain suspected the merchantman’s crew had done you an injury,” he continues while I drink. “And he wasn’t wrong, was he? Only it’s not your back what’s giving you grief.”

I fold my aching arms before my chest to protect what isn’t there. Tucked inside my elbow, my fingers touch the side of my torso, but my thumb brushes over the edge of a rib that protrudes from my bloodless flesh. I press down on it. The rib gives a little, like the gangplank, but it doesn’t hurt. I can’t remember if it ever did. Somehow, that makes it worse.

“The taunts got to you,” Harold says to fill the silence. “You never were at ease interacting with other crews, even the friendly ones. Which definitely doesn’t include those bastards today.”

I pull up my legs and stare ahead, into the shadows at the back of the galley. “Harold?”

“Hmm?” “Why isn’t our payment ever enough? No matter what we offer for a

trade, they always want something more, or something else. Even when the cargo’s already onboard, they add a few more terms to the deal.” An idea spawns, and I look at Harold. “It’s like every ship is working from a tariffs manual, only our copy is missing.”

“You know better what’s on those shelves than I,” Harold concedes. “Still, the captain twisted that commander’s arm well enough today. You think he found that missing manual?”

The lantern flickers, the shadows dance across the galley, dimming patches of light in their passing.

61

“No,” I mutter, “that might’ve been another trick of his.” Pieces of a puzzle gradually come together. “Remember I told you how his eyes went white during battle, and suddenly he had new orders from the Admiral? What if captains have a special way to communicate with each other? One that’s not described in the manuals.”

Harold shrugs thoughtfully. “It would explain a few things.” “Like why James keeps to his cabin so much.” “That, too. It also explains why you and I never met the crews of the

Admiral’s flagship and the galleon consort. Or their captains.” Shifting through my memories, I have recollections of finding notes

from the Admiral in the cabin whenever I hadn’t replied to his signals fast enough. But I can’t seem to recall a single conversation.

“Should we find that odd?” Harold ventures. With the gentle glow of the stove against my back, I mull over his

question. “Not really,” I conclude. “The crews we talk to belong to

merchantmen or whatever, but never other warships. I mean, none of our sister ships ever contact the crew of the others.”

“Good point, now you mention it.” “Then there’s the manuals, recommending a ship avoids direct contact

with others as much as possible.” “You’re saying our fleet communicates primarily through a network

among the captains?” “Yeah. Probably all warships connect to that network.” “But only warships.” Harold cocks his head. “A cultural thing. Sounds

plausible, I suppose. Although even warships need to pick up supplies and exchange intelligence once in a while.”

I had considered that, too. “Back when the galleon supplied us, did you ever catch who worked her crane? Because I never saw more than the odd fleeting shadow on her decks.”

The shadows around us crawl closer, too. Despite the still-burning stove, the galley grows noticeably colder. I take another sip from Harold’s whiskey, but the alcohol biting my tongue and my throat gives me no comfort. When I hand the flask back to Harold, goosebumps prickle my arms and legs, making me shiver.

“This isn’t how I imagined it would be,” I whisper. “I wanted our ship to become a frigate so we could protect others ships. Fend off bullies

62

and pirates, like I had hoped someone would do for us. I wanted to meet different ships, listen to their stories and share ours. Something more useful than following orders to sit tight and do nothing.” I hug my legs. “I was so sure James would understand. That he’d want the same.”

The lantern runs low and the shadows hide half of Harold’s face when he sighs. “Given the lengths to which the captain’s gone to protect the fleet, I’d say he shares your values.”

“But why just the fleet? They are warships, they can take care of themselves. Why not break away and extend our reach?”

“We’d be alone, then.” “But not helpless. Far from it!” I burst upright, sore muscles no more

than a distant nuisance. “All the things we’ve seen since James took command – storms, battles, damage, equipment shortage, obstinate tradesmen – he tackled each and every one of them. Without breaking a sweat! Imagine what else such a captain could achieve.”

Harold glances around the galley, his brow arched. “I applaud your loyalty, but a ship needs more than a good captain. If she’s to thrive, she needs her first mate, too.”

A sad weariness washes over me like a cresting wave. “She has one, Harold.”

“In name only,” he says, the gleam on his round face dim again, “and only until you get yourself together.”

“Would it make a difference if I did? James doesn’t trust me, and I don’t believe he ever will.” Wide open though it is, my chest constricts. “I’m not up to par. How can I even suggest to leave the fleet, when I won’t be able to carry my share of the responsibilities and consequences? Everything would be on his shoulders. I can’t ask that of him. I won’t!”

Harold smiles at me the way he used to, long ago. “You’re not on par, you say,” his deep voice rumbles kindly, “yet your enthusiasm lights a room. Or hadn’t you noticed the shadows retreating just now?”

“I don’t… Did I?” “Oh yes,” he says, and sits back. “Like when you played with that box

of gems you used to have. Every time you’d bring one to show us, no matter how shite the weather was, the sun would come out.”

The shadows wrap around him again as he speaks. A veil of darkness I can’t stave off. Sick to my stomach, I huddle into myself.

63

“I need them,” I grind through the nausea. “I need to find that chest.” “You’ve been searching for it, haven’t you?” says Harold, “Just

remember, Will, it weren’t the gems that shone so.” “I don’t care! If I’m to be of any use to the ship, to you and the men,

to James, I need to find them. I need to find that chest! It’s still on the ship, but trying to sense it is like peering through dense fog. One moment I can feel it, the next it’s…not gone but not there?”

Harold gives me another paternal smile. “Kids outgrow their toys, Will. Maybe those gems don’t want to be found.” He slaps his knee and stands up in the edge of the lantern’s light. “I have to turn in now, but why not give that some thought tonight, hmm?”

I stare at him, gobsmacked. Is he seriously suggesting I give up? I mean to ask, but the shadows… The shadows paint his face with a grin that’s all teeth. Like a skull.

“Good night, lad,” Harold’s lipless mouth says, and disappears with the rest of him into the night while I’m left behind, paralysed by pain, alcohol, and the vile promise drifting on the crests of the darkness that consumed my friend. Or will consume him.

Not on my watch! Not when the solution is so fucking obvious. I close my eyes and stretch my senses. If my gems could once bring

out the sun, I’m sure their presence alone can pierce the fog that obscures them now.

64

65

66

Chapter 4

OU FUCKING IDIOT!”

James’s roar shakes the ship’s timbers with such force I fear there’s been another explosion. The two men who

hauled me out of the smoke-filled powder magazine scurry off, leaving me sprawled on the gun deck at the captain’s feet. He towers over me, for all the world an irate angel of vengeance with wings of billowing, black smoke.

“You call yourself bosun? What the hell were you thinking?” His voice breaks in anger, and his fury—His fury burns, hotter than

the flames that charred my skin and every bit as relentless. Sick with pain and shame, I hang my head. I couldn’t look at him even if I could still see straight, but neither can I bear him to look at me.

“Damn you, Will! Answer me!” I’m already judged and sentenced, but he’ll tear every scrap of flesh

from my bones until I confess. And he’s right. I fucked up. Slowly, painfully, I sit up and crane my head back.

“I’m s—” I wince. Speaking hurts. But I have to say it. “I’m sorry.” As if hit by a blizzard, the captain’s anger instantly goes stone cold.

“Excuse me?” he drawls. “Was that an attempt to apologise?” Confused, I gauge his sudden aloofness, only to be overwhelmed by

the rage boiling underneath. “You,” James begins, his tone collected but his lips twitching. “You

failed, by the narrowest of margins, to. Blow. Up. My. Ship!” Every word is a punctuated stab in my chest. “A few more kegs would have sunk us! Was that your plan?” He bares his teeth, like a shark barrelling up from the deep. “Or did you intent to detonate my cabin only?”

“Wha—?” My left eye is blind, my right bleary, but his are bright. Too bright. Livid. Rattled as I am, the coin drops too late. “No! Captain, I’d never—God, no! I’m sorry! I’m so s—”

“Save it,” he barks. “Your apologies are useless. Words cannot fix the fractured tiller or the magazine’s fortifications, nor will they replenish

“Y

67

our gun powder supplies.” He glares at me, sneering. “And you know what else empty words cannot do?”

He leaves the answer hanging, compelling me to tilt up what’s left of my chin so my remaining eye can meet his. “Sir?”

“They can’t grow back your fucking skin!” I flinch. Behind him, the powder magazine vomits more smoke. No

one stands up in my defence. Least of all I. Accident or not, nothing excuses the damage I caused.

At last James breaks the tense silence. “Mr Harold, sort out this mess. Checks, repairs, and a full status report

by tonight.” Then he glares at me, with no less disdain than I deserve. “And deal with him, will you? He can’t work like this.”

I hear every breath being held as the captain stalks off, but the instant he is out of sight, an army of feet shuffle about as my mates move to assess the damage I did to the ship. And myself.

“Will?” Harold. “Will, are you all right, lad?” “Of course he isn’t,” Richard scoffs on my behalf as he kneels beside

me to examine my injuries. “No one’s all right with half their face peeling off and their hands charred to the bone.”

Instinctively I hold out my arms and flex my fingers. Blackened phalanges respond. “Oh.” I hadn’t noticed that yet. “It’ll heal,” I mutter. “Eventually.”

“No doubt you’ll bounce back soon enough,” says Harold, now hovering into my limited peripheral vision, “but the captain’s likely to hold this over your head for good while.” He tuts in disapproval. “I’ll have a word with him about that. After he’s cooled off.”

“Why bother? He was right, wasn’t he? The damage I caused to the magazine, and the tiller…”

“The tiller’s holding just fine. It’s your face that’s looked better.” “Not difficult, I imagine.” Still, it could be worse. As far as I can tell I’m half blind, my lips hang

awkwardly around my teeth and left cheek flaps at every syllable, but at least my shirt seems to have survived the blast. A few nasty singes, but nothing that gives away what I don’t want Harold or Richard to see. They’ll grill me with plenty of questions as it is.

“What in hell’s name were you doing down there, lad?”

68

“Those gems we talked about,” I huff between Richard’s prodding. At the surgeon’s instructions, I turn my face further. “They’re down there, Harold. In the back of the powder magazine.”

“Are they now? Wonderful,” Harold chides, hands planted in his sides. “Too bad retrieving them didn’t exactly go without a hitch. What in blazes happened in there?”

At that moment, David joins us. The master armourer sports a frown that rivals James’s.

“Two dozen powder kegs exploding is what happened,” he reports. “The captain had a fair point, Will. Your little scavenger hunt all but ripped the stern apart. Still might, too. The surviving kegs are bound to leak powder, so one spark is all it takes to set off what’s left. Which is plenty for us to,” he gesticulates a big explosion, “go out in a marvellous display of fireworks.”

His sarcasm rubs too much salt in my wounds. “Fuck you. It wasn’t my fault! I’ve handled powder kegs a million times before, and I swear I moved and inspected them according to proper protocol. Everything was fine, right—Ngh!” I clench my jaw when Richard plucks at a chunk of torn flesh. I swat away his blasted pincers and glare at David. “Right up to the moment I picked up one keg and it felt a fraction too heavy.”

The master armourer puckers his lips in thought. “Kegs are always the same size and weight. I stacked and secured them myself. I’d have noticed if any of them were off.”

“Just a slight difference. I noticed, but then I didn’t have time to put the keg back before…” I pointedly mimic his explosion gesture. Some charred flesh crumbles from my thumb. David turns an interesting shade of green.

“Just that one keg?” he asks, looking at Harold. Before I can interject, the two of them set out to discuss the situation,

quickly joined by several bystanders. No one will heed me anymore. Even Richard only pays attention to my injuries. His pincers smarts, but it’s not the burns or shredded flesh that cause me real pain. They’ll heal. But James’s anger and disappointment in me…

In my lap, my bony hands clench into misshapen fists. “Forget it, doc. I’m done,” I say and stand, albeit unsteadily. Richard sits back on his haunches, unimpressed by my stubbornness.

“You’re a fast healer, but it’ll be easier on you if you let me finish.”

69

“Who cares how long this takes? You heard the captain. I’m useless!” “An accurate observation on his part. Given he specifically referred to

your current condition.” Richard smirks at my disbelief, but packs his surgeon’s bag. “When you decide you want my help, I’ll find you.”

Puzzled, dizzy and with a pounding headache, I stagger off. Towards the nearest ladder to the lower decks. The men make a hole to let me pass, disgusted by my empty socket and the strips of flesh dangling from my face and arms. Or by my irresponsibility. Their averted looks gut me but fuel my determination to get away from them. From everything.

I hate being alone in a crowd.

HE CABIN DOOR slamming shut in my wake brings down a fresh hail of shards from the broken stern windows. Through the empty frames, wind blows in and jostles the disarray of papers

and maps scattered across the floor. I pace to my desk, a carpet of shattered glass crunching underfoot, and survey the runs of spilled ink and the glittering film of razor-sharp slivers that covers my desk s well as the seat of my chair.

Standing amidst this warzone, I fight the urge to kick something. A captain should maintain his composure at all times. My heart hammers in my ears; the urge persists. I force myself to

exhale deliberately, but the hiss mutates in my mouth. “Shit!” The heavy chair stirs up a cloud of glass fragments where it

lands. There you go again, giving up at the first sign of difficulty. I bite back another curse. “No, I’m better than this. I have to be.” With a deep breath, I run my fingers through my long hair and focus

on retying it into a proper queue. The measured movements drain the agitation from my body, and I go about returning order to the chaos. The maps and papers right themselves, the crack in the lantern mends, and the broken glass swipes into oblivion. My attempt to also replace the windows fails, but when I forbid the wind to invade my quarters, the draught dies at once. It will have to suffice until Harold can tend to

T

70

the less pertinent repairs. Like the crooked plank ends jutting up, nails and all, under my desk.

The sight of them gives me pause. The powder magazine is right below my feet. Two extra layers of

timber fortify the store, but if the blast was enough to upset these floorboards, it will also have torn out most of the stern’s caulking. Meaning that aside from the obvious fire damage, whole sections of the hull are no longer watertight.

Two dozen kegs. All things considered, I’m astonished the damage is not more extensive.

Didn’t you see his face? As the memory momentarily overtakes me, I lean on the edge of my

desk. Still-wet ink stains my gloves. Black, like the remains of Will’s fingers. Black, like the charred edges that had been his eyelids.

It will heal. All wounds heal. All damage can be undone. The manuals’ teachings are clear, but they do recognise that some

wounds leave scars, and that some scars can be debilitating. Not as a rule, but as a possibility. Given the severity of his injuries, Will might be at risk of permanent mutilation.

A risk I could calculate, if I so choose. My pilot sight responds unbidden at the thought. In a split second, a

fringe of the outcome unravels, showing me a future version of Will. He is burlier than his present appearance, but also grim and aggressive. All of which are consequences of an undeniable disfiguration.

As always, the probability cloud continues to weave other facts into the image, showing how the present situation ties in with this most probable future. Starting with the cause of the injury responsible for this chain of events: the powder magazine.

Why locate the powder store next to the tiller, right below the captain’s quarters and above the waterline? We’re a fucking warship! One direct hit penetrating the fortifications will detonate the entire magazine and tear us apart stem to stern. Whoever had thought that to be a sensible decision?

Will, of course. He had been the ship’s skipper when the magazine was constructed. All decisions concerning it had been his.

If his idea was so stupid, why did you not relocate the powder magazine?

71

I should, and I will. Although today I’m grateful for his unfathomable stupidity. Had the powder magazine been positioned well under the waterline, as it should have been, right now we would be taking on more water than a submerged wicker basket.

Assuming the magazine’s location indeed stemmed from stupidity, and not something more subversive.

By all rights, the powder magazine would be at risk during combat. However, the ship saw little real combat action in the past on account of malfunctioning guns. Since malfunctioning guns do not require gun powder, the stores would have been all but empty most of the time.

Until I took over and got the blasted gun working, meaning we would carry a full supply of gun powder again.

I comb through my beard, tracking this line of reasoning. Crews are notorious for their inability to plan far in advance. It is dubious Will would be capable of contriving a long-term plan, never mind seeing it through across years. Yet he made several more unusual choices, such as refusing to use the cabin as his living quarters, when that had been his right as skipper. Humility, Harold explained when he became first mate in Will’s place. However, in the light of facts, I’m obliged entertain a more sinister motivation.

Considering the immense risk, an incident in the powder magazine was long overdue. Except none ever occurred until Will went down there this morning, despite having no duty-related reason to do so…

Didn’t you see his face? “I doubt he planned on losing an eye, but accidents do happen. Even

in the process of rigging an explosion to make it look like an accident.” I replay today’s events through my pilot sight. In the magazine, the

explosion bends timber, rips out caulking, sets fire to the tiller and shreds Will’s flesh. One deck up, the shockwaves shatter my windows and shower me in glass, while thick smoke rises both from the stern and the main deck. My focus at the time shifts to damage control, to driving out the flames like I would repel the ocean’s water. Within moments, the fire is doused, the powder stabilised, and the ship safe. And Will, for all his fumbling, survived the blast. Barely. He lies in the middle of the deck, coughing and disfigured. Outrage louder than my relief, I accuse him of plotting an attack on me. His remaining features pale like

72

the dead, but stammered apologies aside, he does not contest the allegations.

Replay concluded, my pilot sight examines alternative scenarios and projects these over the actual events. Three conclusions stand out.

Firstly, it would appear the explosion itself was inevitable. What triggered it remains obscured, but in every alternate reality, Will goes into the powder magazine with dire consequences.

Secondly, although the degree of damage varies, in every alternate reality the ship survives that explosion. Destroying her had never been the intent behind all this.

Thirdly, in about half of these alternate scenarios, the inevitable explosion injures me sufficiently to incapacitate me for a prolonged period. Were that to happen, Harold – or Will – would assume command of the ship for the duration. Which would put them in a position to extend my incapacitation indefinitely.

Bile scours the back of my throat while options and implications swirl. Possibilities dance, connect, disengage, and reform like a churning sea, over and over until individual notions have gravitated into a single, coherent pattern. I bombard this pattern, this most probable interpretation of events, with different variables to test its cohesiveness. It bends under the pressure, but reverts to the same shape. Its preferred shape, and therefore an accurate depiction of an inexorable reality.

I suppress a chill. The pattern’s nodes float around me like gulls around a whale carcass. Whatever I try to chase them away, they persist in returning to complete the bleak reality I’m facing. From the pit of my stomach, a panicked heat begins to push its way up.

Will despising me is not news, but I had no idea his hatred ran so deep. A captain should maintain his composure at all times. Advice I should heed this time. Dissecting the probability cloud for

the course of future events is a pointless exercise unless you use that information to your advantage. Any mediocre captain can spot dangers looming beyond the horizon. An accomplished captain, however, is able deflect such dangers before they have a chance to materialise.

You are not an accomplished captain. Perhaps not, but I’m competent enough to rise to the challenge Will

poses. Searching the nodes for weaknesses, I remember one of Will’s

73

earlier transgressions. An act of childish vandalism that brought me nothing but irritation, but may well supply the tools I need to stop him.

Oh, the irony.

N A SHIP of men, solitude is hard to come by. On a good day I’d hide to the top of the main mast, bracing my legs and spreading my arms like our banner in the wind. A vivid

fantasy, but my hands can’t grasp the shrouds to climb that high. They can barely hold on as I fall rather than step down the ladders, into the forward hold, where it’s cool and quiet except for the ocean lapping the ship’s sides. And the bilge water sloshing against the floorboards in the pitch-black darkness.

Small wonder this is the loneliest corner of the ship. Without a lantern, my good eye sees as much as my missing one. I

take a few steps, then stub my toes and mutter a curse. Feeling my way onward is impossible with my crispy fingers, but navigating the hold by memory, I find the crates stacked near the bilge. Between two stacks, I find a narrow space left by crates now removed. It’s not wide enough, really, but I wedge myself in there all the same. A safe little nook where I won’t get in anyone’s way, and where no one will come to find me.

Least of all my captain. I collapse against the crates and screw my eyes shut, achieving

nothing but a painful pull at what’s left of my face. A soft sigh brushes my split lips. In the dark, the word is barely a whisper, but to my ears, I’m shouting at the top of my lungs.

“Captain…” When I was younger, Harold warned me against idolising our then

future captain. I didn’t understand his apprehension, and to be honest, I still don’t. James and I don’t get along, like I had hoped we would, but he’s our captain. And a captain is more than just the shipmaster. He’s the ship’s keeper, her guide, her champion. James proved himself all of that! Everything I broke while I was in charge, he works hard to set to rights. He sees us through storms and battles. Saved us all, so many times. And how do I help him? I don’t. I just trigger an explosion that might well have destroyed the ship. Or worse.

O

74

A shiver wrecks my perpetually broken spine. “I almost killed my captain. Killed him!”

My body grows cold to the bone. The damp of the bilge, I try to tell myself, but this chill come from within. From a truth I don’t want to face, even when it’s my own damn fault.

My captain hates me… I hiss when a few tears, hot and salty, trickle down the crags in my

flesh. An instinctive attempt to dry them on my sleeve only hurts more. Fuck, I need a drink. A stiff drink.

A sudden muscle cramp jerks my leg and I kick involuntarily. Beyond the edge of the crates, my calf brushes against a smooth object that wobbles with the sound of glass. My rigid fingers search for the object, and find an abandoned bottle. I sniff at it. Rum. Still half full. The men must’ve left it here when they last bailed the bilge.

I clutch the bottle’s neck as if to wring it and chug down the liquor in one go. While the rum bites my lips, my tongue and my gullet, grief chews through my feeble self-esteem. When I come up for air at last, the bottle’s almost empty. At the bottom sits one last mouthful that won’t spill out even when I upend the bottle.

Another fucking bilge I can’t drain. “You loser!” The bottle flies through the darkness and smashes against something.

Crates and bales muffle the clatter of shards. On the other side of the hull, the ocean rushes by. It’s louder now than before, and the ship rocks me like a babe in a cradle. I listen for shouts from above, but hear none. No alarm. Just a patch of rough weather, then. James will see us through that.

He always does, better than I ever could. I settle back in my nook, dead set to ignore the unpleasant tingling in

my cheek and my hands. A tell-tale sign of new flesh forming beneath the burnt skin. Richard always says I heal fast. A few more days, then I’ll have full use of my body again.

Too fast. I don’t want to go back. Not while I have no idea what I did wrong.

“What I did wrong?” I echo into the void. “Sweet fucking Kraken, did I ever do anything right?”

75

Hunkered between the crates, my memory takes me back on deck, where I stare at a man whose face is strikingly familiar even though I’ve never met him before. James. Our captain. And he’s enraged! Sails missing, malfunctioning guns, and our ensign a mishmash quilt of colours. But the ship is not unreliable, he insists. Rather I am. Under his cold gaze, I resign. He’ll never be happy with me, so I settle for the next best thing: not angering him any further.

Punitive lashes and one tirade after another prove how well that went…

Still shivering, I huddle into a tight ball. Cold wisps stroke across my arms and back. A draught, no more, but my mind imagines gentle hands caressing me. A sick, ice-cold mockery of comfort. How desperate am I that I realise this, and still savour it while it lasts?

LARITY OF PURPOSE begets clarity of mind. After the initial shock and confusion make way for rationality, I pace to the bookshelves and grab the slimmest volume from the row of

manuals: ‘On the Crew’, the spine reads. What I’m looking for is bound to be somewhere in these measly one-hundred pages.

During my training, I memorised every single set of instructions, including the official amendments. I could cite the whole book by heart, but the official text from the Admiral isn’t of interest now. Rather I scan the hundreds of illicit comments and remarks scrawled in the margins.

The weapons Will unwittingly left me. To his merit, Will must have read every volume multiple times. An

oddity in itself, since crew rarely consult the manuals. Yet he did, from the very beginning. Even on a single page, his shorthand varies from a child’s crooked letters to full-fledged – if still barely legible – handwriting. Most notes are a few words or underscoring, others consist of several sentences squeezed between the manual’s paragraphs. He defiled all volumes this way, but this one contains explicit annotations about his disapproval of the crew’s position in the command structure.

I don’t need to search for long.

C

76

I strum my thumb over the extraneous exclamation marks. The pencil

lead rubs off the paper, reducing Will’s dissent to a faint smudge. I would that I could change his mind so easily, but it is an idle hope. By nature, crews are governed by their base emotions. Logical arguments hold no sway, and common sense doesn’t alter their views. Hence the necessity of orders and hierarchical obedience.

Which Will never accepted, I realise. He fought the flagship’s orders tooth and nail since he erected the foremast. Then I arrived, insisting on obedience to the fleet and meeting out due punishment to drive the point home.

A flash of memory. Will’s blood splatters across the deck and down the front of my uniform. I recall bringing down the cat o’ nine tails on his back, lashing him through his shirt. Yet with every lash, gruelling pains crippled me further, while Will brushed off the whip’s knots like they were little more than a nasty hail storm.

The present returns with a gasp, dragging a causal line from the past to now. I made a mistake that day. Had Will turned on me there and then, it would have cost me dearly. As long as his fear outweighed his resentment, he avoided confronting me, but it seems the balance of those scales tipped today.

Broken floorboards and shattered windows are only the beginning. My pilot sight predicts a physical altercation in the nearby future. Alarming, since the lashing fiasco proved that fighting Will may not necessarily end well for me.

Only weak captains are overrun by their crew. “It’s hasn’t come to that yet,” I growl, and continue studying his notes.

77

My gaze lingers on the last line. The strokes are stronger here, as if

Will pressed down hard when writing them. I detect an emotional charge where his pencil carved the words into the paper. The charge resembles anger, dejection, and a host of other sentiments, but all revolving around the same theme: he refuses to obey the manual’s rule that the crew should remain invisible.

Unsurprising. I see Will out and about at all hours, because he defies my authority. Harold is more compliant. The old man only appears when and for as long as required, and then vanishes like a ghost. The rest of the crew, I have no notion of. As it should be.

Or is it? So far, I presumed Will to be the only exception to this rule, but closer

examination of the facts paint another picture entirely. Harold muttering under this breath behind my back; searing pain from an invisible cause while I disciplined Will; the gunshot wound I assumed was courtesy of that merchantman’s commander. My head pounds with the implications.

Will continuously speaks of ‘us’ and ‘we’, and I realise I have no idea how many faces hide behind those casual pronouns. I disregarded them, because their invisibility could only mean they were loyal. And perhaps at first, they were.

My mouth goes dry. I made a mistake that day, a grave mistake. It wasn’t fear that withheld Will, but a full crew of men, sympathetic with

78

his plight. A crew hiding their numbers under the guise of loyalty, biding their time to overwhelm me and take revenge…

“This isn’t a munity,” I hiss. “It’s a fucking ambush.” Only weak captains are overrun by their crew, and you are not an

accomplished captain. You’re barely a competent one. Stubborn retorts no longer stave off the truth, but however weak I may

be, I refuse to forfeit my captaincy before the game is over. I snap the manual shut and shift my thoughts to our flagship, and to her accomplished captain whose experience with putting down rebellious elements far exceeds my own.

In the white void, my call is answered swiftly and with surprising cheer.

“Captain! Ran into trouble, did you?” The Admiral pats my shoulder. “That is, I assume your visit has to do with the smoke I saw coming from your ship this morning.”

“Yes, sir. An incident in the powder magazine,” I admit, cheeks hot with shame.

I begin to describe the situation when, without warning, he turns away in mind and body. By his flitting expressions, I presume another has drawn his attention and he is conversing with them. Something more urgent than an onboard fire came up? Has to be, or he would not leave me waiting.

I know my place when pressing matters interrupt my audiences with the Admiral, but as this call draws out without any sign of alarm, I grow impatient. I have immediate concerns about my ship’s safety! Is it too much to ask for they be given due attention?

Apparently it is. For my petulant dismay, I lose both my facial hair and a few inches off my height. Frustrated, I envision my true appearance, but the corrected image won’t take hold. By the time the Admiral acknowledges me once more, I resemble a schoolboy rather than a ship’s captain. He notices the change but opts to ignore it in favour of checking his pocket watch.

“So, captain. What was it you wanted?” “Your advice, sir,” I say, my voice tight and too high. “I-I think I’m

facing an impending munity.”

79

The Admiral takes off his spectacles to polish them on the cuff of his coat. “A munity.” He puts his glasses back and gives me a piercing look. “I can’t say I’m surprised.”

My legs buckle as if his words clubbed me in back of my knees. “S-sir?”

“You didn’t realise?” He smiles now. “Well, it has been brewing for some time. I saw it coming for miles, really.”

“You—You knew?” “A matter of experience. In time you will learn to recognise the signs

before they manifest. You see, mutinies only happen to lazy captains who don’t care about where their ship is headed. Such a captain is easily deposed, so his crew leaps to the opportunity. As is their nature.”

Fire bursts through my too-short body. “I do care about my ship!” I yell, stamping my foot.

“Control yourself, boy,” the Admiral admonishes, suddenly on guard. Under his gaze, I gain several years, and he relaxes. “Better. Only when you control yourself can you control your crew. Make them follow your orders and do not tolerate sedition of any kind. Iron discipline is key.”

I clench my fists. “Begging your pardon, sir, but disciplining the ringleader is why this situation escalated in the first place. I need alternatives. Options that will defuse this chain of events, not accelerate it.”

I wait for an answer, but the Admiral no longer hears me. His eyes shine behind his spectacles. In this moment, I only exist to him as a cloud of possible actions nested within a larger cloud of conditions and circumstances.

“Solving your problem requires discipline,” he says, his words both sharp and distant. “You lack discipline. You lack control of your crew, your guns, your sails. Like so many captains who prove too weak to maintain command. I taught you myself, so you would excel beyond that wretched existence.”

It’s all I ever aspired to, and yet… “…you keep my ship tethered to your wake.”

The Admiral frowns. “For your own safety, of course. You are a smart man, but short-sighted and overly cautious, whereas a good captain should be visionary and bold. If you set off by yourself now, inexperienced as you are, you will end up side-lined, overrun and

80

eventually deposed by that upstart bosun of yours. And once he believes himself in command, your ship won’t go anywhere but straight into a reef.” Now his gaze drills into me. “I would spare you that fate. If you let me.”

The stars he sees now swim through my vision, bright as beacons on a clear night. They envelop me like a warm blanket of undeniable truth, and the world tilts.

The next time I blink, I find myself staring at a small, grey swirl in a blank sea. Only in second instance do I recognise it as a gnarl in white-washed woodwork of my cabin’s ceiling. I’m lying on my back on the floor of my quarters, rocked by the ship’s movements. Twinges shoot through my limbs as they readjust to their adult size, and my jaw itches where my skin is reacquainted with the short beard I have grown since training.

The audience is over, then. Still reeling from the unreal sensation of the white void, I lay back and

make a conscious effort to repeat the meeting in my mind. Word by word, I seek the vital notions strewn between the Admiral’s conversation. He is my mentor. It is unthinkable that he would neglect to advise me when asked. If he obscured his answer, he did so on purpose. Force me to think for myself. That was always his method.

Solving your problem requires discipline. In this case, self-discipline to dig until— “You numbskull,” I berate myself with a hollow chuckle. “He meant

I need self-discipline to curb Will’s ambitions.” Evidently, if I can’t quell this mutiny by myself, I have no right to be

captain. A wave lifts the ship. She rolls with the motion, the cabin floorboards

pressing against my shoulders as if she means to spur me to my duties. Not an unreasonable request, since the sea soon grows rougher, the pitches longer and deeper. Beyond the cabin windows, dark clouds chase us, and the panes I sealed by force of will shimmer with every spray of water that splashes high against the stern. Indeed, this weather promises I will need to take the helm myself.

I wonder, how many eyes will be watching me when I do? And what will they do while I’m preoccupied with navigating this foul

weather?

81

The thought jolts me to my feet. This storm could well be the opportunity Will has been waiting for. The ship must come first, that is given. So all he needs to do is leave her to me, and make his move when I can’t spare the concentration to deal with him.

Yet deal with him I must. Ward off his attack, put him in his place, end the rebellion before it begins. But then what? For all his faults, Will is effectively the only real person on board other than myself. Should he yield to my authority, he will vanish from sight with the rest of them. Then I would be alone.

And fool that I am, that prospect pains me more than this pending mutiny.

Such a captain is easily deposed, so his crew leaps to the opportunity. As is their nature.

I huff. Just because a notion is true doesn’t mean I have to like it. Lightning flashes through the sky. The ship crests another wave, and

every loose item on my desk rattles. I swipe them into a drawer and lock it. As I go about securing the rest of my cabin, I go over several plans to secure my crew’s loyalty, too. Their language of choice is action, not words. Arguments won’t convince them. They will only believe that they are better off with me than without me if I prove it to them.

In short, I must make myself indispensable. Not just today or tomorrow, but every day. In perpetuity.

“Captain!” Harold’s voice booms from the other side of the cabin door. “We need you on deck! This storm is turning into a right bugger.”

So it begins. “Thank you, Mr Harold. I will take her from here.” On my way out, I conjure up clean gloves and pull them tightly over

my hands. A strong captain never slips up, never loses grip. Even when the ship, the crew and the ocean itself conspire to make him falter.

N THE DARK, I lose myself, out of touch with everything but the unreal embrace of the crates pressing against my sides. The cold is my blanket and the ship’s gentle rocking lulls me to sleep. Like

the dinghy that was my crib, this lonely nook is my whole world, and despite the hollowness inside me I wish for nothing else.

Seconds, minutes, hours pass in bliss. No one disturbs me, until a crate pokes me between the ribs and I start. Half-awake at best I shove it

I

82

back, only to be nudged by a crate from the other stack. Behind me, waves pound against the hull, and through the ship’s wooden veins, nails and rope come the sails’ complaints that the winds aren’t playing fair anymore.

“Not now,” I groan, resting the back of my head against the timber. “Not yet.”

The ship pitches forward, begging attention as she slides down a steep wave. I resist her pleas and crawl deeper into my corner, arms over my head. She levels, then pitches backwards to climb the next surge. To both my sides, the crates shift in their securing ropes. I prop them up with my elbows and knees, waiting for the ship to stop rising and reach that split moment of weightless equilibrium at the top of the crest.

My stomach lurches as we plunge down again. A few feet in front of me, a spot of light appears on the floor. On instinct, I focus on it. Only it won’t stand still.

“Bloody typhoid-riddled tides!” Only our surgeon curses with exotic diseases. “Will? Ha, there you are!”

The lantern swings down the orlop deck ladder and shines in my face, painfully bright. I blink against the intrusion with both eyes.

Wait. What? The ship climbs again; Richard dangles his lantern in front of me. He

kneels, his free hand pinching my cheek and plucking at my left eyelid without caution or ceremony.

“Scorched flesh, exploded eyeball, and not even a scar to show for it. Skin’s a little thin and pink, but since it’s you, that’ll clear up before morning.” He slaps my leg. “Congratulations, sick leave’s over. Right on time, because we’re in a bit of pickle and you’re wanted up top.”

I lean against the hull, but my intuitive search doesn’t raise any alerts. “What for?” I ask. “Harold already had the sails stowed, the hatches are battened down, and the crew is below deck. Nothing I can do to—”

The sea crashes against the timbers; the ship rolls sideways. Cargo leans in the security ropes, but Richard falls over and I slide out of my corner, straight into him. Sudden panic strikes a hole in me where there already is one.

“Why are we heading into the swell, for fuck’s sake?” I shout over the ocean’s tantrum. “Didn’t James take the helm?”

83

“He did,” Richard yells back while untangling himself from our undignified heap, “but in this weather, he could use a helping hand. So get off your arse and lend him yours!”

“My hands? Doc, they’re fucking use—” I thrust up my upturned palms. In the oscillating lamplight, they are too smooth, too pink, but completely healed. “—less. What the hell?”

We roll back and pitch again. Ice-cold, stinking water splashes from the bilge and soaks my breeches. Its chill spreads across my skin, no longer a lover’s touch but more like Richard emptied a jar of his leeches down my shirt. The waves pound us, but between their hammering on the hull, I feel another vibration travelling through the timbers, infusing the wood with single-minded determination. The ship stabilises, and a grin tugs at my regrown lips.

“The captain’s got everything under control,” I assure Richard. “He’s doing what he does best. Let him. I’d only get in his way.”

The surgeon’s face darkens. “You tell the deckhands that, Will. When they’re done scraping the captain’s blood and skin off the wheel, like they did after the last storm.”

The hull groans, security nets pull taut, and in my memory, James tells me he’s fine. Perfectly fine. As if a stubborn wheel won’t tear right through those thin gloves he always wears.

“Shit.” He won’t want my help, I’m sure, but if I can support him in any way,

I will. I grab Richard’s wrist to point the lantern he’s still holding, when the ship lists and I’m smacked against the foremast base.

“Give me a break!” I yell back, only to trip on a ledge that shouldn’t be there and flat on my face. Drops of dank bilge water leap up between the floorboards to splatter wet kisses on my cheek.

Fuck it. Seems even the ship agrees I should just stay down here. Except staying here means letting James take the beating, all by

himself. Again.

AROLD HADN’T EXAGGERATED. Within moments of my taking the helm, the sea and sky reach for each other in anger, and all hell breaks loose. Waves lash out at the clouds, only to

crashes against our sides and splash onto the deck. The clouds retaliate H

84

with relentless rain that pours down in sheets. In seconds, I’m drenched to the bone, my eyes and ears clogged with water. So I pilot on my second sight and the exhilarating energy it steers through me.

Let other captains keep their petty comforts. You won’t get this kind of rush in the safety of a glass cockpit.

With both feet anchored on deck yet standing on the threshold of what is and what may be, I see the storm’s whims and wiles evolve ahead of reality. Nothing on the Eternal Ocean is entirely random. All things have their inherent pattern of probabilities that can be calculated and predicted. Even these enormous waves soar and crash to their own natural rhythm. A rhythm any ship can ride, if her captain can discern its melody.

And this storm sings like a bird. The real challenge is keeping the ship in tune with the song. The helm bucks against my grip as she tries to break away, but I give her no quarter.

A ship, too, must obey her captain. And so she shall. When the next wave rises, I steer her ahead of its curve. The handles

carve lesions into my palms, but the pain only fuels my determination. Catching the swell at a wrong angle can break a ship in half and the waves forming beneath the surface leave no leeway for error.

The wave carries us up into the howling wind, when a sudden, loud snap rumbles through the timbers. The cable of the forward anchor broke and now its chain pays out at incredible speed. It won’t catch on the sea floor, but the dragging weight pulls down the starboard bow. The ship leans eagerly into the list. Too eagerly. I tighten my grip to keep her straight on the surging wave and impress on every plank and every stretch of hemp that, no matter how she fights me, I will win this tug of war.

Then a massive hand shoots past my face, grabs the wheel, and the spell is broken.

Out of my mind’s grip, the ship yaws and rears. The hand slips and vanishes, while my pilot sight pierces tons of wood and water to focus on the wave cresting beneath us. It takes all my concentration to hold the ship steady when the frothing head passes under her keel and slides us into the next valley.

As the ship leans into the descend, a star-crusted shape slides across the rain-washed quarterdeck, barrelling towards the bulwark. Will. I grit

85

my teeth, ready to catch him before he goes over, but at the last moment he comes to a short stop, clutching the double lifeline tied around his waist.

They don’t work for me; why do they work for him? The helm bites through my gloves; answers must wait. At the bottom

of the valley, with the next wave rushing towards us, the ship still heels too far.

The runaway anchor! With a flick of mind, I severe the anchor’s heavy chain. A sacrifice

I’m loathe to make, but as its deadweight sinks to the bottom of the ocean and out of sight, the swell pushes the now unburdened ship upright. Just before the next wave crashes into her side.

As the ship regains balance, so does Will. He clambers to his feet, breathing heavily and squinting against the blinding rain as ambles towards me, flush with intent. In the split second I try to gauge him, the helm yanks hard to port. Surprised by the sudden change of direction, she almost bowls me over. I brace and regain control quickly, but there can be only one explanation for this absurdly unnatural behaviour.

The anchor, the blocked rudder, the bucking helm. I’m not fighting the ship, but sabotage at the hands of the crew I cannot see.

So, it has begun. Thunder roars through the dark clouds. Secured by his lifelines, Will

crosses the slippery deck. Yet when he approaches the helm, he makes no attempt to seize it. Instead, he reaches for the back of his belt, where I know he carries his rigger’s knife. Since I don’t wear a lifeline for him to cut and make whatever he planned look like an accident, he only has one target left: me.

The altercation I had foreseen. My pilot sight confirms this is it, but I cannot let go of the ship to defend myself. Even when he plants that blade in my kidneys, I cannot let go!

Rearing against the incoming wave, the ship yaws again. On instinct, I force her back on course. Asserting my will on her takes less than a heartbeat, yet next I realise, Will’s body is pressing against my shoulder. I tense. He shouts into my ear, but through the rain hammering down and my heart hammering in my head, I can’t make out the words. A strong wave kicks the bow, trapping my concentration navigating the storm, yet fully aware of arms thick as mooring cables snaking around

86

my waist. Between calculating the incoming waves, I forcefully ignore Will’s frantic groping, as well as the overdue edge of his knife. I’ll deal with that when it comes.

It doesn’t. Only a rope tugs at my sides as Will ties it to my belt. Not any rope, a lifeline. What the ever-loving fuck? I can’t spare this bizarreness more thought, because the ship – rather,

the crew – take advantage of my distraction. The cargo must have started shifting, because she tilts and lists, an off-balance playball of the currents as long as my concentration is fragmented.

Enough. We won’t last at this rate. I need him gone. Without releasing the helm from my mind or my grip, I push Will

away like so much water leaking into the hull. He winces at the force, but presses closer. A sharp yank at my midriff; his frustration turns into panic. My pilot sight glimpses why: the knot in the lifeline won’t hold.

It never does. Clouds black as night roll in from the horizon at alarming speed. The

worst of this storm is yet to come, and I can’t afford more distractions. In a last effort, I grab Will’s arm, conducting my willpower through him to compel both the crew and the ship, and convince them that if we’re to survive, they have no choice but to obey me.

CAN BARELY see and the water pouring down my face half chokes me, but I’m not giving up. It’s a solid knot, for fuck’s sake! Why does it keep unravelling?

A vice clamps down on my shoulder, making my hand spasm as if a lightning strike shoots through my body. But I won’t let go. Not until James’s lifeline’s secure.

“Go ahull!” The gale drowns out his words, but his order resonates with such

intent I don’t need to hear it: go below deck, ride out the storm there. What other option have we? I grab his arm, meaning to drag him with me to safety. But the instant we touch, I realise he’ll never forgive me if I do.

“Go!” he spits. “You’ll have your chance later!” Chance? What chance?

I

87

Another wave lifts the ship at an awkward angle. When the deck tilts, I brace myself on my lifeline; James only has the helm. The immense effort it costs him to hold her – and us – steady shows through his uniform.

I don’t want to leave him. Still, through the rain, his bright eyes blaze like furious beacons that brook no argument. Least of all from me. So I slither to the back of the quarterdeck, alone, hating myself every step of the way.

Down on the orlop deck where the crew is riding out the storm, battening down the last hatch behind me feels like locking a cell door. Only I have no idea which side I’m on. Have I shut in my mates for safety, or locked James up with the monster roaming up top? I find my answer when Harold hands me a rag and I dry myself off.

Where James grabbed my shoulder, my shirt shows pink smudges. Like faded bloodstains.

88

About the Book

I hope you enjoyed this teaser preview for my upcoming novel, The Ship That Tried To Sink Itself. These four chapters are only the beginning of an epic but horrifying adventure. The maelstrom of manipulation, torment and betrayal drives James, Will and their ship ever closer to the edge of endurance. To survive, they must learn to trust each other. But how do you trust someone who is out to destroy you? However, The Ship is more than a surrealist fantasy novel. For those who choose to read it as such, the story is an allegory showing the crippling anxiety, exhaustion and ultimately self-destruction caused by severe depression. This insidious illness forces those who suffer from it to mask its presence with fake smiles and self-denial. The Ship means to show the devastating downward spiral hidden behind this façade. For more information on the novel: The Ship That Tried To Sink Itself – Book webpage For more information on the psychological model I developed and used as premise for this book: Ship Psychology Method – Official Website

89

About the Author

Call me Chris. Inspired by first-hand experiences, I write stories about the dark side of life, history and our own souls. I live in the Netherlands, together with my family and the demons under my bed. My other books include:

The Devourer – psychological paranormal thriller The Kalbrandt Institute Archives – paranormal adventure series Book I: Hauntings Book II: Monsters Book III: Artefacts (in progress) Book IV: Monuments (in progress) Res Arcana – flash fiction anthology Learn more about these titles on my website.

90

Glossary

Bilge – the part of the bottom of the hull where water collects and must be pumped out of the ship.

Boatswain – (pronounced ‘bosun’) the person on board responsible for the sails, lines and rigging. Issues commands to the crew by means of a whistle, called ‘pipe’ due to its shape.

Bosun – verbal pronunciation of ‘boatswain’.

Brace – a line (rope) used to rotate a yard around the mast, to allow the ship to sail at different angles to the wind. Braces are always used in pairs, one at each end of a yard (yardarm).

Broadside – the flank of the ship above the waterline. Also: a volley from all cannons on one side of the ship.

Bulwark – the extension of the ship's side above the deck, which functions as a banister.

Caulking – stuffing the seams between the hull’s planks to make the ship watertight. Can also refer to the material used for this process (usually the hemp from old, unravelled ropes).

Clewline – rigging line used to truss up the lower corners of square sails for stowing (cutting these lines when a sail is set releases the wind from the sail so the canvas doesn’t tear).

Course – the direction a ship is heading in. Also: short for course sail, the lowest sail on a mast of a square-rigged ship.

Courses – short for the course sails (plural).

Ded reckoning – short for ‘deduced reckoning’, meaning to calculate the ship’s current position without instruments and based only on its previous position, speed and course. Very prone to errors, so this method of navigation is only used as a last resort.

91

Ensign – the ship’s identifying flag, flown from the stern of the ship.

First Mate – second in command of a ship. Here, also the leader and spokesman of the crew.

Footrope – a rope looped under the yard on which the sailors stand while working the sails.

Gangplank – a large plank used as movable bridge between ships.

Gangway – the narrow boardwalk along the ship’s side connecting the quarterdeck with the foredeck one level above the main deck.

Jack – the ship’s flag, typically a smaller version of the ensign. Here, the crew’s flag flown from the main mast.

Line – the ropes of the running rigging are generally referred to as ‘lines’.

Masthead – proper name for what is also known as the ‘crow’s nest’.

Pay – filling a seam between the wood of a ship’s hull with caulking or pitch to make it watertight.

Pilot – a navigator, a person qualified to navigate a vessel through difficult waters.

Quartermaster – the First Mate of a privateer or pirate ship.

T’gallant – verbal pronunciation of ‘topgallant sail’.

Tops’l – verbal pronunciation of ‘topsail’.

Topgallant sail – the third highest sail on a mast of a square-rigged ship.

Topsail – the second highest sail on a mast of a square-rigged ship.

Yard – the horizontal spar from which a square sail is suspended.

Yardarm – very end of a yard.