He took a step forward, and from his posture, Hadrian knew what was coming even if Wesley was oblivious. The big midshipman struck Wesley hard across the face. The boy fell over his sea chest onto his back. He rolled to his side, his face red with fury, but never got farther than his knees before Beryl struck him again, this time hard enough to spray blood from his nose. Wesley collapsed to the floor again with a wail of pain and lay crumbled in a ball, holding his face. The other midshipmen cheered.
Beryl sifted through the contents of Wesley’s chest. “All that for nothing? I thought you were a lord’s son. This is pathetic.” He pulled a white linen shirt out and looked it over. “Well, this isn’t too bad, and I could use a new shirt.” He slammed the chest and returned to his breakfast.
Disgusted, Hadrian started to move to help Wesley but stopped when he saw Poe earnestly shaking his head. The young seaman took hold of Hadrian’s arm and nearly dragged him back up to the main deck, where the sun had risen sufficiently enough to cause them to squint.
“Don’t involve yourself in the affairs of officers,” Poe told him earnestly. “They’re just like nobles. Strike one and you’ll hang for it. Trust me, I know what I’m talking about. My older brother Ned is the coxswain on the Immortal. The horror stories he’s told me can turn one’s stomach. Blimey, you act like you’ve never been on a ship before.”
Hadrian did not say anything as he followed Poe back toward the galley.
“You haven’t, have you?” Poe asked suddenly.
“So, who is this big fella? Is he Beryl?” Hadrian asked, changing the subject.
Poe scowled, then sighed. “Yep, he’s the senior midshipman.”
“So Beryl’s a noble?”
“Don’t know if he is or he ain’t. Most are third or fourth sons, the ones not suited for the tournaments or monastic life who volunteer to serve, hoping they can one day manage a captain’s rank, rule their own ship, and make some money. Most midshipmen only serve about five years before making lieutenant, but Beryl, he’s been a midshipman for something like ten years now, I reckon. I guess it makes a man sorta cranky, being left behind like that. Even if he isn’t a true blue-blooded noble, he’s still an officer, and on this ship, that means the same thing.”
“Royce?” Hadrian whispered.
Royce lay in his hammock near the bow of the ship, his head still covered with the white kerchief—the insignia of the maintop crew. He was shivering and wet, lying in soaked clothes.
“Royce,” he repeated. This time, he shook his partner’s shoulder.
“Do that again and I’ll cut your hand off,” he growled, his voice garbled and sickly.
“I brought you some coffee and bread. I put raisins in the bread. You like raisins.”
Royce peered out from under his thin blanket with a vicious glare. He eyed the meal and promptly looked away with a grimace.
“Sorry, I just knew you hadn’t eaten since yesterday.” Hadrian put the tray down away from him. “They gave you extra duty, didn’t they? You seemed to be up there longer than anyone else.”
“Bristol kept me on station as punishment for being slow yesterday. How long was I up there?”
“Twelve hours at least. Listen, I thought we’d have a look around the forward hold. Wyatt tells me the seret are hiding a special cargo up there. If you can get your stomach under control, maybe you can open a few locks for me?”
Royce shook his head. “Not until this ship stops rolling. I stand up and the world spins. I’ve got to sleep. How come you’re not sick?”
“I am, but not like you. I guess elven blood and water don’t mix.”
“It might,” Royce said, disappearing back under his blanket. “If I don’t start feeling better soon, I’ll slit my wrists.”
Hadrian took his blanket, laid it over the shivering form of Royce, and was about to head back up topside when he paused and asked, “Any idea what happened to Edgar Drew?”
“The guy that fell?”
“Yeah, some of the crew think he might have been murdered.”
“I didn’t see anything. Spent most of my time hugging the mast. I was pretty sick—still am. Get out of here and let me sleep.”
It was late and the port watch was on duty, but most of them slept on deck or in the rigging. Only a handful had to remain alert during the middle watch: three lookouts aloft at the masthead, the quartermaster’s mate who manned the wheel in Wyatt’s absence, and the officer of the watch. Hadrian nearly ran into this last man as he came on deck.
“Mr. Wesley, sir,” Hadrian said, shifting the tray so he could properly perform the salute.
Wesley’s face was blotchy, his nose and eyes black and blue. Hadrian knew he was standing an additional watch. On his way to Royce, Hadrian had overheard Lieutenant Bishop questioning the midshipman about a brawl, but because Wesley had refused to divulge the name of his adversary, the young man took the punishment alone.
“Mr. Wesley, I thought you might like something to eat. I’m guessing you haven’t had much today.”
The officer glared at him a moment, then looked at the tray. As he saw the steam rising from the coffee cup, his mouth opened and abruptly shut. “Who sent you here? Was it Beryl? Is this supposed to be funny?”
“No, sir. I just know you didn’t get to eat breakfast, and you’ve been on duty through the rest of the meals today. You must be starved.”