“Uh.”
“You haven’t learned to be a coward from me, I hope.” His eyes lock on mine and then dance away, settling on a painting mounted on the wall.
A woman, pushing her blond hair away from her face, holding a child in her other arm.
“Father, I’m sorry—”
“Admiral!” he explodes suddenly, rising to his feet. His face is a web of veins, popping and red and violent. He raises a hand and I close my eyes, tense for the blow. If this is the only way I can prove my manhood, I will. I won’t run, I won’t cry out, I’ll take every last bit of punishment he has to give me for my weakness two yars ago.
But the blow never comes and when I open first one eye, and then the other, I find he’s turned away and is looking out one of the portals. “You could have saved her,” he says to a bird that’s hopping on the railing outside.
I know he’s right because he was there—he saw everything. I saw it too, but I just can’t quite…if I could only…
Remember.
It’s as if the word is spoken in my head, a soothing voice that sang gentle lullabies to me when I’d wake up in the throes of a nightmare. Now my nightmares are about her, so who’s going to sing to me?
Remember.
I can’t. I can’t.
Blood, frothing and churning. The image burns in my mind and I slam my eyes shut again, trying to dispel the bubbles, red with…no! No more.
My mother’s body, sinking beneath the surface, jerking as the sharp-tooths tear her to shreds.
Remember. No, dammit, I don’t want to! I don’t want to see you die again and again, never living, never a happy ending where I save you, where I become the man I’m meant to be now, pull you up, up, up, stronger than ten men, stronger than a Stormer’s horse, stronger than the raw pull of the ocean, embracing you and never letting go. Not ever again.
When I open my eyes my father is staring at me curiously, and I wonder why. His gaze drops to my fists and I follow it. My hands are clenched, splotched with red and white amongst the little freckles that are always there because of the sun and my fair complexion.
“Yesss,” my father murmurs, drawing the word out like the hiss of snake. “Yes, anger is good, but only if it’s controlled. Maybe there’s hope for you yet.”
I relax my hands and am surprised that they ache when I stretch them out. Specks of fresh blood dot my palm where my too-long fingernails cut into my flesh. I slide them behind me and out of sight.
“What now?” I say, keeping my voice as impassive as possible. One of his lessons comes back to me, finally. To show emotion is to be emotional. And emotions are for women and the weak. If men are to be cold-hearted vapid creatures, then that’s what I’ll become. I’ll do anything to prove myself. But isn’t anger an emotion?
I don’t have time to dwell on the question because the Admiral smiles, strides to the bed and sits on it, patting the bedcover beside him. Surprised at his sudden change in mood, I hesitate, but then join him, keeping a healthy gap between us. Although his expression has softened, there’s none of my mother’s tenderness in the hard lines of his face.
“Son,” he says. “I know things have been hard, strained even, between us. But I want you to succeed. I want you to become the man I know you’re capable of. You’re my son, after all.” He pauses and I search his eyes for the joke, for an insult, but there’s only truth in them.
“Then why are you sending me on the Mayhem?” I ask.
He smiles. “You should know me well enough by now,” he says cryptically.
And I should know. And I do know. From the moment I learned which ship I’d be assigned to, I knew exactly why. I just didn’t want to admit it.
(Because I’m scared.)
“A test,” I say.
He doesn’t reply, but doesn’t deny it either. He sighs, and for the first time in my life my father looks tired. What I thought a moment ago were his hard lines, look more like age lines now, deep canyons in his flesh cut from rivers of weariness and grief and disappointment.
“What do I have to do?”
—to make you proud.
—to earn your forgiveness.
—to prove myself.
He puts a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Your task is to turn the Mayhem into a ship we can all be proud of, a ship where the best sailors in the fleet will beg to be stationed, to serve. Captain Montgomery is a…strange man, but a good captain. He needs your help, as do I.”
I shouldn’t believe him (because it feels like punishment), but I do, because I want it to be an opportunity. That’s all I want. A chance to make things right. A chance to forget the past, live in the present, and look forward to the future.
“Aye, Admiral,” I say, standing, a flattened hand raised in salute. “What advice will you give me?”
He raises an eyebrow and I can see I surprised him. A boy rushes into action and failure. A man asks questions on the way to success. Another of his lessons tumbles through the void.
“Two things,” he says, waving away my salute with a casual gesture. I drop my hand to my side. “One. Earn the respect of your seamen by being one of them and above them.”
I frown. “But how can you be both?” I ask.
He wipes my question away with another wave of his hand. It’s part of the test, I realize. Making sense of his advice. Learning from experience.
“Two. Beware the bilge rats,” he says, and my face reddens because at first I think it’s a joke, a dig at my failure from before. But his face is deadly serious. “They’re not like us. They’ll do anything to bring you down, to make you as low as they are. Don’t trust them. They are tools to be used, nothing more.”
With that, he stands, ushers me to the door, and I leave his chambers for maybe the last time, off to seek my fate.
~~~
Small wooden boats carry us to the shore, borne on the backs of midshipmen with heavy oars. Choppy waves bounce us around, occasionally bandying together to propel us forward from behind.
Cain sits beside me, staring out at the long line of white-sailed ships standing sentinel, as if they’re guarding the entrance to the ocean. Down the line—way down the line—stands a ship with yellowing weather-stained sails, frayed and full of holes. The eyesore of the fleet: The Sailors’ Mayhem.
My test.
Cain reaches down and lets the water rush over his hand. Instinctively I reach to grab his arm and pull it away. Because of the sharp-tooths. Sticking a hand in the water around here is a good way to lose it. But I stop, because I’m being stupid. Normal procedure has been followed. Fish guts and carcasses would have been emptied in our wake, giving the deadly predators something to keep themselves occupied with—and the spear guns would have scared off the rest. They’ll come back, of course, because they always do, but for now we’re safe.
Cain looks at me strangely, but lifts his hand, now dripping with saltwater, flicks his fingers in my face. “Hey!” I say, but I’m not angry, and I splash him back, smiling.
Having informed me of my orders and offered his advice, my father will remain on the ship, as Admirals’ do. I don’t mind his absence—it relieves some of the pressure building in my chest.
Hobbs glares at us from the other end of the boat. I wish he was absent, too.
“Don’t mind him,” Cain says. “I heard he hasn’t spent the night with a woman in months.” He laughs loudly and I join him, although I don’t exactly understand what’s funny about it. Hobbs can’t have heard what Cain said, but he extends a gesture in response anyway, which only makes us laugh harder.
“I don’t know what I’ll do without you,” I say to Cain, and even to my own ears my voice sounds high and boyish. Right away I wish I could unsay it.
Cain’s smile fades and he slaps me on the back. “Soon enough there will be another fight to fight against the Stormers, and we’ll see each other then.”
“Aye,” I say, growling the way I’ve practiced since I was only as tall as my father’s knees.