“The Princess of Melengar rules there now,” Hadrian heard a young lad say.
He didn’t look to be much more than sixteen. He was a waif of a boy with thin whiskers, freckles darkened by days in the sun, and curly hair cut in a bowl-like fashion except for a short ponytail he tied with a black cord. He sat with Wyatt, Grady, and a few other men around a swaying table illuminated by a candle melted to the center of a copper plate. They were playing cards and the giant shadows they cast only made Hadrian’s approach more disorienting.
“She doesn’t rule Ratibor. She’s the mayor,” Wyatt said, correcting the boy as he laid a card on the pile before him.
“What’s the difference?”
“She was appointed, lad.”
“What’s that mean?” the boy asked as he tried to decide which card to play, holding his hand so tight to his chest he could barely see the cards himself.
“It means she didn’t just take over. The people of the city asked her to run things.”
“But she can still execute people, right?”
“I suppose.”
“Sounds like a ruler to me.” With a wide grin, the boy laid a card indicating that he thought it was a surprisingly good play.
“Sounds like them people of Ratibor are dumb as dirt,” Grady said gruffly. His expression betrayed his irritation at the boy’s discard. “They finally get the yoke off their backs and right away they ask for a new one.”
“Grady!” said a man with a white kerchief on his head. “I’m from Ratibor, you oaf!”
“Exactly! Thanks for proving me point, Bernie,” Grady replied, slamming his play on the table so hard several surrounding seamen groaned in their hammocks. Grady laughed at his own joke and the rest at the table chuckled good-naturedly, except Bernie from Ratibor.
“Hadrian!” Wyatt greeted him warmly as the new cook staggered up to them like a drunk. “We were just talking about land affairs. Most of these poor sods haven’t been ashore in over a year and we were filling them in on the news about the war.”
“Which has been bloody cracking, seeing as how we didn’t even know there was one,” Grady said, feigning indignation.
“We were just in dock, though,” Hadrian said. “I would have thought—”
“That don’t mean nuttin’,” one of the other men said. With next to no hair and few teeth, he appeared to be the oldest at the table, and possibly the entire ship. He had a silver earring that glinted with the candlelight and a tattoo of a mermaid that wrapped around his forearm. He too wore a white kerchief on his head. “Most of this here crew is pressed. The captain would be barmy to let them touch solid ground in a port. He and Mr. Bishop would be the only ones left to rig her!”
This brought a round of laughter and garnered irritated growls from those trying to sleep.
“You don’t look so good,” Wyatt mentioned to Hadrian.
He shook his head miserably. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been on a ship. Does the Storm always rock so much?”
“Hmm?” Wyatt glanced at him, then laughed. “This? This here is nothing. You won’t even notice it in a day or so.” He watched the next man at the table play his card. “We’re still in the sound. Wait until we hit the open sea. You might want to sit. You’re sweating.”
Hadrian touched his face and felt the moisture. “Funny, I feel chilled, if anything.”
“Have a seat,” Wyatt said. “Poe, give him your spot.”
“Why me?” the young boy asked, insulted.
“Because I said so.” Poe’s expression showed that was not enough for him to give up one of the limited places. “And because I’m a quartermaster and you’re a seaman, but even more importantly, because Mr. Bishop appointed you cook’s mate.”
“He did?” Poe asked, and blinked, a smile crossing his face.
“Congratulations,” Wyatt said. “Now, you might want to make a good impression on your new boss and move your infernal arse!”
The boy promptly stood and pretended to clean the bench with an invisible duster. “After you, sir!” he said with an exaggerated bow.
“Does he know anything about cooking?” Hadrian asked dubiously, taking the seat.
“Sure, sure!” Poe declared exuberantly. “I know plenty. You just wait. I’ll show ya.”
“Good, I don’t feel up to working with food yet.” Hadrian let his head drop into his hands. The old man next to Wyatt tossed down his card and the whole group groaned in agony.
“You bloody bastard, Drew!” Grady barked at him, tossing what remained of his cards onto the pile. The others did the same.
Drew grinned, showing his few yellowed teeth, and collected the tiny pile of silver tenents. “That’s it for me, boys. Good night.”