Trevn

Trevn sat with Admiral Hanray Vendal on the man’s balcony, watching the ships follow in the Seffynaw’s wake. Over the past few days the admiral had lectured on many important subjects: inter-ship communications, diplomacy between realms, negotiation tactics, and potential hazards at sea. The organization of the fleet would be Trevn’s final lesson from the admiral for a while, as today—at Trevn’s request—he would be put on a watch to work as a sailor.

“Convoys fall into two categories,” the admiral said. “Those created for military missions and those that routinely escort merchant vessels. Our convoy consists of three columns with two squadrons of warships on each side, running a zigzag course.”

“Similar to a flank guard?” Trevn asked.

“Exactly like that. Though I set the course, the Berith galley warship sails ahead of the Seffynaw.”

“Like a scout?”

“More like an advance guard. She’s there to protect us from surprise and to give aid should we be attacked. I also have three armed merchant ships following in back of the fleet as bait for any who might attack from the rear. And before you ask, yes, they act as a rearguard.”

“Because of the pirates?”

“That’s part of it,” the admiral said. “But it’s always best to prepare for the worst. Pontiff Rogedoth might be a real threat to our fleet, as might the Magonians who commandeered the Vespara. And even with all our precautions, a small ship could easily slip between the flank warships and overpower some of the smaller vessels. We push for the island and, if need be, will chart our next course from there.”

“Vendal? You in here?” a man’s voice called.

“Ah, here is Captain Livina,” the admiral said, standing. “I was nearly finished anyway. If you have no further questions, Your Highness, let’s get you set on a watch. If you’re certain that’s what you want?”

“I am.” Trevn rose and followed the admiral inside.

Captain Aldair Livina had bent over the admiral’s table, examining the charts that had been anchored there with pins. The thin man of average height with a graying, mossy beard glanced up, bowed quickly to Trevn, and resumed his investigation of the chart. “You think this a faster route than the one I gave you, Hanray?”

The admiral stopped beside the captain. He was taller and thicker than Livina, which made the older man look almost frail. “From what I know of northern currents, yes,” the admiral said. “If you remembered your coordinates correctly, I believe we can reach the island in ten days, even at our slower speed.”

Livina grunted, pacified it seemed, since he stepped away from the chart table and regarded Trevn. “Sâr Trevn, how goes the apprenticeship?”

“Very well. I have learned much from Admiral Vendal.”

“But you’d like a chance to climb the mast, is that it?”

Trevn chuckled. “I admit, I am looking forward to it.”

“Forgive my bluntness, Highness,” Livina said. “You’ve been sailing plenty in your life. You know what kind of ship this is. You know the names for everything and most of the maneuvers. You’ve even steered by tiller and whipstaff. So why play the hard role of seaman when you can sit here with the admiral each day in this fine cabin and learn navigation?”

Everyone expected a sâr to care only for his own pleasure, but the Five Woes and Trevn’s own brush with death had shown him that living for himself would not help the realm of Armania survive this catastrophe.

“Captain Livina, while lectures and reading are an invaluable tool in educating a man, I have found hands-on experience enhances comprehension. I want to understand every part of this ship, from your duties all the way down to that of ship’s boy. Once we reach Bakurah Island, Sâr Wilek will send explorers to look for more land. I intend to be on that expedition.”

“Then you shall, of course,” the admiral said. “It is our duty to serve the throne in any way we can, isn’t that right, Captain?”

Livina shrugged. “Suit yourself, Highness. But it’s terrible hard work. You might not like it.”

Trevn’s face burned, but he reminded himself that he had earned his reputation as the firebrand of Castle Everton. “If I fail, I will find some other way to aid my brother in his role as Heir. But I assure you, Captain, I will not fail.”

Another grunt. “You’ll join the Starboard Watch under Norgam Bussie, my second mate, and report to his master’s mate, Nietz. Start by shadowing Rzasa, one of the apprentice sailors. And since Sâr Wilek took young Ottee to be your servant, the boy can apprise you of his former duties as ship’s boy.”

It would do to start, but Trevn would not be satisfied with so limited a view. “I will also require the opportunity to learn from the carpenter, the caulker, the cooper, the scrivener, the steward, the cook, the physician, the diver, the navigator, the pilot, and the mates. Admiral Vendal, I’m sure, will have more to teach me in the future, as will you, Captain. I don’t mind starting at the bottom, so long as nothing is omitted from my training. I also bring Sir Cadoc, my shield, with me, which adds another man to the Starboard Watch.”

Captain Livina folded his arms. “If it’s work you want, it’s work I’ll give you, but understand this: As apprentices under my command, you and your man work for me. That means giving up your authority over me where matters of sailing are concerned. You’re part of my crew. What I say goes. There’ll be no talking back. Understand that?”

“Yes, sir,” Trevn said, bristling under the man’s authoritative tone.

The captain grunted. “Sailors are working men. Coarse, rude, and rough. Some’ll shock you, and they’ll do it more if they see they can get a rise out of you. They’ll call you names, to your face and behind your back. They’ll hate your soft hands, which won’t stay soft for long if you truly work hard. You face a hard battle of them accepting you, prince that you are. And I advise against you letting your father or brother or shield fight your battles for you. That will only make the men hate you more.”

“He’s a sâr, Captain Livina,” the admiral said. “No one would dare hurt him.”

“I am not afraid of any man,” Trevn said, then grinned. “You assume they will all hate me, Captain. I intend to prove you wrong.”

And that was how Trevn found himself with Rzasa, the young apprentice assigned to the Starboard Watch. A brown-skinned Blackpool boy with a thick accent, Rzasa wore a faded jacket the color of green olives, tattered gray trousers rolled up to his knee, and red socks pulled up just as high. He wore no boots. Just the socks on his feet. When Trevn asked why, Rzasa shrugged and said his feet chilled easily. He was no older than Trevn, but the wistful deepness of his dark brown eyes gave the impression that he had seen enough trials to last a hundred years.

“Apprentices are just young sailors without much experience,” Rzasa said, limping on his right leg as they made their way across the main deck. “We do what most sailors do. Wash and sand the decks, paint, make repairs, check ropes and sails, replace or mend bad ones. We also move sails, furl or unfurl ’em. Man the pumps. Lower and raise anchor. And if we’re boarded, we pick up a sword and fight to defend the ship.”

“I can do that much,” Cadoc said, glowering. He had worked hard to obtain his honorable position as High Shield and disliked being forced to apprentice as a sailor.

“Rzasa!” Nietz called down over the quarterdeck rail. The master’s mate was short, exceedingly strong, wore bronze rings in both ears, and had a blue scarf tied over his head that matched his master’s half-cloak. His nose had once been split down the middle and now twisted a bit to one side. “That hawser is dry. The three of you coil it and store it in the locker.” He turned his back on them, and Trevn couldn’t help but think it was as broad as a shield.

Rzasa led Trevn and Cadoc single file toward the foredeck along the chalk path. “Only ship’s boys are ranked lower than apprentices,” he said, “so everyone else can give us orders. But we’re not slaves. So don’t let the other sailors trick you into personal services. Most of the officers are fair, but watch out for Shinn. He’s master’s mate on the Port Watch and a mean one. If he comes after you, grit your teeth and take it. The less you say, the less you’ll get from him. Usually.”

“What about Nietz?” Trevn asked.

“His bark is fierce, but he’s a good-natured fellow. Likes to sing songs about wave women when he drinks too much.”

The three worked together to coil the thick rope into the hawser locker. They’d barely stored half the line when Trevn’s breath started to heave. His trousers pinched his thighs when he crouched and his sleeves did the same to his arms when he bent them. He shouldn’t be surprised that fine clothing was ill suited for work as a sailor.

A distant voice from above pulled Trevn’s gaze skyward. A man in the crosstrees quickly vanished behind the fore topsail. “When do we climb the masts?” he asked.

“We have to climb up there?” Cadoc asked, squinting into the sails.

“Soon as you can,” Rzasa said. “Climbing the mainmast is what terrifies most first-timers, but you’re not really one of us till you do.”

Trevn couldn’t wait.

“Sâr Trevn? What in the Eversea are you doing?”

Trevn straightened at the familiar voice. Fonu Edekk, his brother Janek’s close friend, walked toward him with Trevn’s half brother Kamran DanSâr and some grizzled commoner.

“Learning to sail,” Trevn said, continuing to feed the line to Rzasa. The sun cast the three newcomers’ shadows over the hawser as they stopped behind Trevn. “I plan to join the expedition for new land.”

“Honestly, Trevn, you’ll catch sun sickness if you keep this up,” said Kamran. “It’s madness for a sâr to work so hard.”

“Thank you for your concern, but I disagree.”

“It’s the sâr’s choice,” the commoner said, lumbering toward them with an assertive bearing. He had skin the green-gray color of rotten spinach and wore a blue thick wool hat with a rolling brim. He squinted one tawny eye at Rzasa while the other looked crookedly away. “Some passengers are complaining of a stench on the starboard side of the aft hold, Rzasa,” the man said. “No doubt they’ve helped themselves to the cargo and made a mess of it. Leave the hawser to the shield and take Princey to the hold. Find the broken barrel, and clean it up.”

“Yes, Master Shinn,” Rzasa said.

Master? It was then that Trevn noticed the blue master’s half-cloak thrown back over the man’s shoulders like a scarf. So this was the foreboding Shinn.

“Look alive, sailors!” The man glared at Trevn and strode away.

“You heard the man,” Kamran said to Trevn. “Look alive, Princey.” And he and Fonu followed Shinn, chuckling.

“I don’t like being separated from you,” Cadoc said.

“We talked about this,” Trevn reminded Cadoc. “I’ll be fine. You keep an eye on those two. Find out why they’re so friendly with Master Shinn.” Trevn walked with Rzasa toward the companionway.

When they reached the cargo hold, the putrid stench reminded Trevn of the Blackwater Canal in Everton, which had carried wastewater through the city. “Stinks like Gâzar’s garden.”

“You would know,” Rzasa said, grinning as he entered the cargo hold. “Shinn haunts my dreams. Everyone’s afraid of him. Even the cap’n. They say he lost both his eyes to pirates and his good one come from a sand cat.”

Trevn laughed at this, but Rzasa’s somber demeanor sucked away all the fun. “Is he sick? His skin looked strange.”

“Scablands Blight, he says.” Rzasa turned back and whispered, “Watch out for his brother Zaki. He’s without a tongue and half a wit—crazier than Shinn. Wears a red handkerchief tied round his arm to keep him from killing.”

“Killing who?”

“Everyone. He’s a murderer. Killed hundreds. Only the red handkerchief keeps him tame.”

Trevn doubted very much that his father’s ship would employ murderers.

They had just located the broken barrel when Ottee, Trevn’s new onesent, found them. The slight boy had black skin, brown eyes, a head full of soft, curly hair, and a missing pinky finger on his left hand.

“I’ve finished every task you gave me, Sâr Trevn,” he said, panting as if he’d done every task while running. “What stinks?”

“Broken barrel,” Rzasa said. “Grab those buckets and help us clean it up.”

The barrel, which had been filled with salted whitefish, had toppled off the end and cracked. Most of the fish were now spoiled. They scooped up the mess with the buckets and hauled it to the main deck, where they dumped it into the sea.

Halfway through the job, the bells tolled for the start of the evening one watch, but Rzasa said they must finish. Once they did, they went up to the deck to report. As it was a new watch, they found the first mate, Quen, manning the whip, Cadoc loitering beside him. Rzasa gave Quen his report of the spill, and Quen dismissed them.

“Just like that we’re off duty?” Trevn asked as they walked away.

“Unless you want to climb the mainmast,” Rzasa said.

“No thank you,” Cadoc said.

But Trevn did, even with his entire body sore from work. “It’s got to be the mainmast?”

“Yep,” Rzasa said. “Best if you go it alone your first time. You can take the mast or the ratlines.”

Trevn peered up to the mainmast. There wasn’t much to hold on to but some stays that ran up the sides and a yard at the top of each section. He glanced to the ratlines, which began at the outer railings. “How far up?”

“All the way to the masthead,” Ottee said. “There’s something written there, and you gotta tell the cap’n what it says to prove you done the climb. If you’re going to climb the rigging, always go on the windward side so you don’t get blown off into the water.”

“That’s good sense,” Trevn said.

“Which way you going?” Rzasa asked.

“Ratlines.” Trevn took the stairs to the main deck and wove through the pockets of people clogging up his path to the ratlines on the windward side of the ship. A sailor coiling rope saw him coming and paused to watch. The dull buzz of conversation from the commoners eased off as they too fixed their gazes on the Third Arm of Armania.

The rigging rose in sets, each reaching to a different height on the mainmast. Trevn stepped toward the middle set, which stretched all the way to the top. He grabbed the shroud just above the deadeye and leapt up on the rail, swinging himself around and placing one foot on the ratlines. Instantly he could feel the tilt of the ship and how the wind pushed his weight into the rigging. Always climb on the windward side. Thanks, Ottee.

The ratlines gave surprisingly little slack as he pulled himself up from one to the next. He moved quickly, knowing he had an audience to impress. He climbed through the lubber’s hole at the maintop platform and up, up, up until the ratlines ended at the topsail yard. There he took hold of the rigging farthest out so he could keep his body close to the mast, then climbed up to the crosstrees. The roll of the ship felt even more pronounced now. How much harder might this be in a storm?

Still he climbed, hand over hand. There was no longer any purchase for his boots, and he realized now why sailors went barefoot in the rigging. Tomorrow he’d leave his boots in his cabin.

He scrambled easily onto the lookout platform. The raven cage was attached to the side, and one of the birds watched him. The wind this high up chilled the sweat on his arms, making him shiver. The ship dipped and rose in the slow pitch of the sea, a constant rolling. At this height Trevn felt like a bee perched on a swaying flower.

He had only a little ways to go, so he wrapped his hands in the rigging and climbed to the top, where he hooked one arm around the masthead so he wouldn’t slip, and took in the view. He could see for leagues on all sides. He marveled at the size of the fleet. Hundreds of ships carrying the survivors of the Five Realms. Beyond, the vastness of the Eversea made this ship seem small, even after so great a climb.

He glanced down to the tiny faces below. Ottee whooped and waved, jumping up and down as if Trevn had been his champion on the tournament field. Rzasa and Cadoc stood with him. Master Quen was still at the helm, Nietz beside him.

At the quarterdeck rail overlooking the main deck, Trevn caught sight of a woman in a familiar red-and-yellow dress on the arm of a man. He squinted, his pulse suddenly throbbing in his chest. It was Mielle. She was looking up at him, holding on to the arm of Kamran DanSâr!

That Miss Amala held Kamran’s other arm did not faze Trevn. The memory of Mielle dancing with Kamran at Rosârah Brelenah’s court back in Everton obliterated all caution. He needed to be on the deck, as soon as possible.

Trevn shimmied back down to the lookout platform. He had spent years watching sailors slide down the backstays. He not only felt he could do it, he was sure that doing so would impress Mielle and the watch. He wasn’t wearing gloves, so he removed the handkerchief from his pocket and tied it around his palm. He grabbed hold of the stay through the handkerchief and hooked his opposite knee around it as well, then jumped off.

He shot down the slick rope, realizing too late that the backstay had been recently coated in tar. He wrapped his other arm around the stay at his elbow and hooked both ankles as well. He was already gaining speed. He squeezed with his hand, hoping to slow himself, but the heat burned right through the handkerchief. Two-thirds of the way down, when he conceded that his firebrand ways had finally killed him, he set his boots against one another at an angle and felt himself slow as his soles scraped back the tar. This helped, and he slammed feet-first against the quarterdeck, just managing to stick the landing in a low squat.

Ottee raced toward him, cheering. “Down the backstays, whoopee!”

“Well, ain’t you the skylark?” Rzasa said.

Nietz grunted. “The sâr has a death wish the gods almost granted.”

“Indeed,” Master Quen said.

“Trevn!” From his left a creature clad in red-and-yellow silk tackled him. Mielle felt solid in his arms and smelled like flowers. She squeezed from him what little breath remained, then let go and punched his arm. “What were you thinking jumping off the lookout tower?”

Trevn caught sight of Kamran and Miss Amala still standing by the inner rail. “I saw you with Kamran.”

“Oh tuhsh, Trevn.” She rolled her eyes, but he could tell from the twist of her lips that she was pleased. “You saw me chaperoning my foolish sister with a man twice her age, a pair that, unfortunately, I must return to immediately.” She kissed Trevn’s cheek and strode away.

“A fine show of bravery, Sâr Trevn, and a decent first climb. You see the mark at the top of the masthead?”

At the sound of Captain Livina’s voice, Trevn regarded the man, who was standing at the port rail. He gaped, abashed. He’d been so taken by the view, then jealous seeing Mielle with Kamran . . . “No, sir. I forgot to look.”

“It’s a mighty nice view up there, sailor,” the captain said, “but when I send a man into the rigging with a job to do, he’d better not forget to do it. You could have killed yourself wearing boots in the rigging, and you scraped half the tar off that stay coming down, so you’ll be the one to re-tar it next watch. Ottee, show the skylark where the tar is kept.”

“Yes, sir,” Ottee said, dragging Trevn away by the arm.

Rzasa limped up to join them. “There’s to be dancing on the lower deck tonight,” he said. “You could come during the first watch. There’ll be women there. You probably got better things to do, though, being a prince and all.”

See there, Captain? Rzasa had accepted him already. “I thank you for the invitation, Rzasa. I shall come, and bring a woman of my own.”

Rzasa grinned broadly. “You mean Miss Mielle, don’t you? Everybody says you’re going to marry her.”

Such a comment startled Trevn. “Do they?”

“I’ve heard that too,” Ottee said.

Trevn didn’t know what to make of this revelation, so he dodged the serious topic with a joke. “Master Mielle Allard . . . I suppose it has a nice sound to it.”

That evening, Mielle on his arm, Trevn arrived in the sailors’ berth on the lower deck charged with excitement. Lanterns hung swinging from the deck head on the perimeter walls. In the middle a group was dancing, the taller men hunched slightly to keep from hitting their heads. Trevn led Mielle to dance straightaway, and they quickly became the center of attention. The crowd cheered them on, and they danced until they could no longer stand. Rzasa found them and led the way to the opposite end of the berth and to a circle of sea chests.

“Sit on my trunk,” he said. “There’s room for both.”

So Trevn and Mielle sat. Cadoc stood beside them, surveying the crowd with narrowed eyes.

The sailors were playing a dice game that Rzasa called Throw. Trevn took advantage of their diverted states to examine them fully. They were all of them greasy-haired, rough-skinned, and scarred. Of those he had met, Nietz had two crooked fingers to match his crooked nose. Skooley had a thick scar from nose to jaw that formed a hairless part in his beard. Bonds had the familiar kink of a broken nose as well as a gouge of pale skin along one temple. Rzasa had the limp, of course, and Ottee the missing finger. Shinn the glass eye and blight. And his brother Zaki added a once-broken nose to his severed tongue. Sailing, it seemed, was a dangerous job.

Trevn soon caught on to the game of Throw and asked to play.

“It’s a betting game, Princey,” Shinn said, “but only for what you have on you or can fetch this moment from your trunk. We don’t take pay-you-laters on the lower deck.”

Nothing in the pile on the floor in the center of the circle tempted Trevn in the least. Shabby coats, worn boots, dull knives, an assortment of bronze or ivory buttons, and a handful of coins. Yet these were treasures to these men. All that most of them had in the world.

“You shouldn’t gamble, Trevn,” Mielle said. “It’s against Captain’s rules, or so Kal told me.”

“Captain don’t bother us with any of that, lady,” Shinn said. “He trusts his mates to keep order. Besides, I wouldn’t mind the chance to win myself a night with you if Princey here is willing to play.”

Mielle squeezed Trevn’s arm, and an instant of despair flashed through him. “The lady is not mine to gamble, Master Shinn. And I’ll thank you to watch your manners where she is—”

“If she’s not yours, I claim her,” Shinn said, leering at Mielle.

She stood, hands on her hips and glaring at the man, which only made his grin broaden. “No one lays claim to me, Master Shinn. To the rest of you, good night. I have had enough of such company. Until tomorrow, Sâr Trevn.” She stamped through the center of their circle and left.

“Cadoc,” Trevn said, nodding toward Mielle. “See that she makes it safely to her cabin.”

“I should not leave you here alone,” Cadoc said.

“I’ll be fine. Quickly, now. Miss Mielle is more important at present.”

His shield growled but trudged after Mielle.

Trevn went back to the negotiations. “The lady is gone, Master Shinn, thanks to your rudeness. But I’m in.” He pushed his hands into his pockets and withdrew his grow lens, a charcoal pencil, and a square of folded blank parchment. He leaned forward and dropped his items into the center pile.

Bonds snatched up the grow lens and held it to his eye. “This is a fine piece.”

“It’s all right,” Trevn said. “I have another one.”

“Princey has plenty to share,” Shinn said. “So let’s play.”

“New man throws first,” said Nietz, passing Trevn the dice.

“Pick your main number, Princey,” Shinn said.

“Seven,” Trevn said, knowing it was the most common. He rolled, and the dice clattered on the wood deck. Two threes. “Six,” he said.

“That’s your chance number,” Nietz said. “Now roll again.”

Rzasa caught up the dice and passed them to Trevn, who this time rolled a nine.

“Roll till you get your chance number and win,” Nietz said, “or till you get your main number and lose.”

One lost on the main? Trevn shouldn’t have chosen a seven, then. Despite that fact, three more rolls produced an eight, ten, and finally a six.

“You win,” Rzasa said. “Take something back from the pot. It don’t have to be yours.”

Trevn reached out to Bonds, who was still holding his grow lens. “I’ll take that, thanks.”

Bonds handed it over, and the roll passed to Nietz.

Trying to purposely lose a game of chance might prove difficult. Since Trevn had chosen poorly with a seven as his main and won, he feigned a gullible superstition and stuck with the number each round. Eventually he began to lose. Whenever someone lost, Shinn, as “the house,” claimed one of the loser’s items from the pot. When the dice next came to Trevn, Shinn had claimed all his things.

“So I’m out, yes?” Trevn asked, looking from face to face.

“Can be,” said Nietz. “Or if you want to keep playing, you can put in something else or take a loan from the house.”

Trevn noted Shinn’s crooked grin. He would be a fool to put himself in this man’s debt. “But you don’t take pay-you-laters.”

“A loan is different,” Shinn said. “You borrow from me, and I give you the goods to pay in now. Then you owe me interest.”

“Which is what?” Trevn asked.

He nodded to Trevn’s right hand. “That’s a fine ring.”

Trevn scoffed. “I will not gamble my signet ring.”

“Your clothes, then,” the man said. “We’re about the same size.”

“The sâr is two hands taller than you,” Nietz said.

“I can hem sleeves and trousers,” Shinn said. “It’s the width that matters, and there we’re akin.”

“If I put my clothes in the pot, I’ll have nothing to wear,” Trevn said. “I see no other players here wearing only a smile.”

The men chuckled.

“Keep your clothes for now,” Shinn said. “If you win back your belongings twice, you can give them to me as interest and keep your clothes. But if you lose, it’s all mine.”

“You don’t have to,” Rzasa whispered, with a furtive glance at Shinn.

“I know.” But Shinn had irritated him from the start with his rudeness to Mielle. Trevn wanted to make the man regret it. “I’ll take your loan, Master Shinn.”

And this time Trevn played to win, choosing mains that were less probable. He won four passes in a row, then lost two. Won three, lost three. Every time the dice came his way, the eagerness grew. Anxious to beat Shinn, Trevn craved the chance to get ahead again and again, to win six rounds.

Until he lost six.

Zaki chortled and put his arm around his brother, hugging him to his side.

“I’ll take my interest now,” Shinn said.

Trevn’s face tingled. It had happened so fast. He couldn’t believe how quickly he’d gone from being ahead to losing it all, but he made an effort to stand and keep his posture strait, his chin high, and compose an expression of manly dignity.

He undressed as fast as he could without trying to look like he was hurrying. He removed his belt, tunic, and undershirt, tossing them into the pile, then kicked off his boots.

Shinn rushed forward and began picking up his discarded clothes. The moment he lifted a boot, Trevn stopped him.

“Not my boots. Our agreement was for my clothes.”

Shinn’s evil eye fixed upon Trevn. “I meant your boots too.”

“You did not mention them in your initial request.”

“That’s true, Shinn,” Nietz said.

Shinn glared, his gaze sweeping over the circle of men. He finally shrugged. “Keep your boots, then, Princey, but I’ll take the rest.”

Of course he would. Trevn took off his trousers, and while he was crouched, pulled back on his boots. Then he stood and pitched the wadded trousers at Shinn, who scrambled to catch them.

“This was fun,” Trevn said cheerily as he walked out of the circle toward the stern bulkhead. “But I think it’s time for me to go. Ottee, find Sir Cadoc and tell him I retired to my cabin for the night.”

“Gambling away your clothing, Trevn?” Wilek said the next morning. “I am not your mother, but I am tempted to scold you soundly for such foolishness.”

“I as well,” Cadoc said.

“Scold me if you must. But I tell you I suffered enough on the walk to my cabin.”

At this Wilek cracked a smile, inducing one from Cadoc.

“It was incredible!” Ottee said from Trevn’s side. “He stripped down like he cared naught what anyone saw of him and marched off as if we’d all bored him to tears.”

Trevn glanced down at his onesent. “I am glad you found the situation entertaining, boy, but I was humiliated. I heard them laughing.”

“Sounds like you deserved it,” Wilek said.

“Oh, it was funny, to be sure,” Ottee told Wilek, “but it was ever more grand to see him treat Shinn’s great triumph over him as if it was nothing.” He turned his eager expression on Trevn. “He’ll hate you forever, I suspect, but the men will think it the greatest joke.”

Distant ringing sent Trevn to the door. “That’s the change of the watch, Wil. We’ve got to go.”

“You’ve yet to tell me anything you’ve learned!” Wilek said.

“Very well. Most of the sailors don’t believe Bakurah Island is real. They think we’re sailing into the unknown. That rumor, Mielle tells me, has spread among the commoners, as has word of the pirates. The people are afraid.”

“The island is real, but so are the pirates,” Wilek said. “We’ve received word of two more stolen fishing vessels with witnesses left behind to implicate a ship called the Taradok. The Duke of Highcliff believes she belongs to Zahara Khal.”

“Any relation to Randmuir Khal of the Omatta?” Trevn asked.

Wilek grimaced. “His daughter.”

Thoughts spun in Trevn’s mind as he sought out a connection. “Perhaps she got word of what happened to her grandmother?” Ottee peeked in the doorway, reminding Trevn of the hour. “That is all the talk I’ve heard, brother. Now I really must go.”

“Do try and behave yourself,” Wilek said. “Your reputation has no place to go but up.”

Trevn and Ottee made their way to the quarterdeck as quickly as possible and found Nietz waiting. And grinning.

“Perfect timing, Ottee!” Nietz said. “Someone got sick on the main deck. You and Boots go clean it up.”

The nickname drew Trevn’s gaze to Nietz, who was smirking at him. “Get to it, then!”

“Told you,” Ottee said to Trevn as they fetched empty buckets. “Good nicknames only come to sailors who are liked.”

Trevn couldn’t argue with that.

Over the next week Trevn became Boots as he worked as a sailor. He much preferred tasks on deck, especially in the rigging, though when Shinn was around—always wearing the clothes he’d won off Trevn—the man seemed determined to keep Trevn below deck.

As Ottee’s shadow Trevn learned to clean the massive stew pots in the sailors’ galley, empty the privy buckets in the officers’ cabins, scrub the decks, feed the chickens and pigs kept in pens on the quarterdeck, splice line, pick oakum, sew canvas, tie a host of knots, ring the bell at the watch change, trap and kill rats, and fetch things for the sailors.

Some of the chores overlapped in Rzasa’s position as apprentice, but here Trevn got to climb in the rigging and work the sails. His favorite role was acting as lookout. He’d always loved climbing, and the top of the mainmast had supplanted the red-and-brown striped roof of Thalassa’s Temple as Trevn’s favorite place to think. The word carved atop it was Wansea, the name of Captain Livina’s first wife.

In both roles Trevn learned to call his superiors sir, which might have been the most difficult lesson of all.

One dawn watch Trevn sat on the quarterdeck with Rzasa and Ottee, picking oakum. This involved meticulously pulling apart fragments of old, discarded rope. The oakum would eventually be mixed with tar and used to seal planks in the ship. The work was so monotonous Trevn’s eyes had started to cross. The sharp fibers of hemp sliced, pricked, and slivered into his hands, which were dry already from so much salt water.

“Hey, Boots,” Nietz called. “Get aloft to the main topgallant yard and check the reef lines. All the pull is going straight back when it should aim up diagonally into the body of the sail.”

“Yes, sir!” Trevn tossed his chunk of rope back into the pile, eager to climb.

The sun had risen by now, and the sky was bright and clear. He scurried up the windward side of the ratlines to the maintop, through the lubber’s hole in the platform, and up even higher to the main topgallant yard. There he saw that someone had tied the clew reef line wrong. He fixed it, then continued up to the lookout, staring out across the wide expanse of blue. A bird, white as snow, soared overhead, and as he turned to follow its flight his gaze caught a crest of green and brown in the distance.

“Land.” It really was. “Land!” he yelled down. “Land to port beam!” He wasn’t the only one to have seen it. Signal flags were waving high on three of the nearest ships.

They had reached Bakurah Island. A few days before schedule, as the admiral had predicted. Trevn pulled out his grow lens and studied the shoreline. It didn’t seem to have much more than a sloping elevation. There were no cliffs or cracks that he could see, no river holes, no distant mountains. The strangeness of that and the multitude of trees set him on guard. From what he knew of land, this didn’t look large enough to support the passengers of some six hundred boats. Trevn squinted into the distance but saw no other islands from this vantage point. Beneath the ship, the water was so clear that he could see a massive coral reef with colorful fish darting about.

No reason to stay up here now. He shimmied back down the lines, wanting to find Mielle and tell her the news, eager to find a way to shore and explore.