“Not really,” Zander admitted. “There’s much to explore, though.”
Yarrow nodded resolutely. “Much to explore, indeed. Take care, love. I’m going to do some prospecting of my own.”
Before Zander could object to being left alone in the damp, smelly dungeon of the orlop, Yarrow hollered to the pirate meant to be guarding them.
“Oy!” they said. The man’s eyes shot open. “Don’t suppose you have a surgeon on board, do you? I believe I would benefit from a looking over.” Yarrow gestured to the wound on the back of their head, pasting a smile on their face Zander had never seen them wear before. It was innocent, almost… dainty.
The pirate at the stairs grunted and stood, gesturing for Yarrow to follow him. Yarrow made a show of standing up slowly, groaning slightly with each step they took.
“You,” the man said, pointing to Zander, “stay here and don’t fucking break anything. I’ve gotta take a leak.”
Zander nodded and watched them disappear upstairs, wondering what in this disgusting mess he could possibly worsen. When they were out of sight, he rushed to the stairway and looked up to ensure no one was coming, then began to frantically search the orlop.
The adrenaline still coursing through Zander’s body seemed to rise to the surface, thrilled to have a purpose other than clearing grime from the rotting floorboards. His fingers shook as he opened crates and peered inside barrels, his ears listening for the sounds of the wooden stairs creaking. He gagged as he found the source of a particularly sour smell, a barrel filled with oranges covered in a thick layer of green mold. Fruit flies emerged in a small cloud as he lifted the lid, then quickly replaced it, his arm covering his mouth as he struggled to hold on to the contents of his stomach.
He moved on, picking up a pile of canvas scraps atop a nearby chest and tossing them aside to open it. As the scraps fell to the ground, Zander heard a clunk that gave him pause. Picking up a bit of material, he grinned at what lay beneath: a needle made of thick bone, about as long as the distance from his wrist to his fingertips and curved in a semicircle. A sailmaker’s needle.
Heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs. Zander reached for a scrap of canvas and wrapped it tightly around the needle, shoving it inside his boot with his dagger. When the pirate meant to guard him returned, he was already on his knees, scrubbing more grime.
***
Zander scrubbed the orlop until the pirates summoned him to the main deck. When he emerged, the smell of the sea rushed over him, and his knees almost buckled in relief. He felt as if he hadn’t breathed real air in hours.
Second only to the smell of saltwater was the smell of cooking food. His stomach grumbled loudly. When was the last time he’d eaten? The sun was low on the horizon. It must have been quite a while ago.
Someone bumped roughly into him, nearly knocking him over.
“Watch it, scrub,” came a rough voice. Zander looked up to see a pirate looming over him, his long hair in locs. He snarled at Zander as he walked by, a small group of pirates trailing behind him. Zander tried to keep the surprise off his face at seeing Yarrow among the group, acting chummy with a sailor whose head was shaved close to the skin, revealing a long, deep scar across his skull.
“Yah, watch it,” Yarrow told him roughly. Zander watched the group pass, smirking to himself when Yarrow turned and winked at him.
“Grub,” said his guard, jutting his chin in the direction of a line of men waiting to approach a large pot that’d been brought from the galley. The smell grew stronger as he approached. Normally, it would not have been an appealing smell—something of a mix between pickled herring and burnt beans—but he was hungry enough that it made his mouth water.
Zander found what appeared to be the end of the line, just behind a short, squat man wearing a leather cap. His eyes scanned the deck, noticing the sailors who stormed The Valerian alongside dozens of new faces. The red headed sailor who now wore Ace’s blade at his hip was eating from a wooden bowl a few paces away. He gave Zander a sour look upon noticing his gaze and spat on the ground at his feet threateningly. Zander looked away.
“Move,” said a deep voice behind him before a pair of hands pushed him to the side, knocking him to the ground. Zander looked up to see a skinny man with stringy brown hair and pale skin leering over him. The two pirates with him laughed as they followed him to Zander’s place in line.
Zander took a deep breath as he stood and silently took his place behind them, his hands clenched into fists.
He had his place in line taken three more times before he finally got food. It was a thick stew of questionable color and uncertain ingredients, scraped from the bottom of a giant pot. A hard piece of bread was shoved into the wooden bowl, jutting out from the measly portion at a sharp angle, unmoving.
Zander carried his bowl to the far reaches of the main deck, away from the crowds of men. He guessed there was a mess area below deck for eating, but he preferred to stay in the cold, crisp air as long as he could.
He tucked the bread into his jacket, unsure of whether Theo would be fed in the brig or not, and brought the bowl to his mouth. The sludge advanced slowly from the bottom of the dish to his mouth, and despite his hunger, he struggled to swallow it. He thought of George and his clever ways of stretching ingredients and sent a silent prayer of safety his way.
He took a second gulp of his stew before a hand swatted the bowl from his grip, spilling most of the thick sludge down the front of his clothes.
The redhead with Ace’s blade laughed loudly, clutching his stomach like a child who’d played a particularly funny trick. A few men on deck chuckled at the scene.
“Better pick that up,” he said. “And hurry. Captain wants you in the brig overnight.”
Zander frowned but kept his lips sealed. The brig would do fine. He was sick of these goddamn pirates.
When Zander arrived below deck to be locked away in the brig, he found Theo laying atop a pile of straw tucked into the corner like a makeshift bed, his uninjured arm draped over his eyes. The pirate who escorted him downstairs unlocked the creaking door and shoved him inside, locking it behind him and quickly turning to go. He nodded toward the pirate keeping watch over Theo and pulled a pipe from his pocket, gesturing. The guard nodded and stood, following him out to the main deck and leaving Theo and Zander alone.
Theo raised his arm, peeking from beneath his elbow at Zander.
“Fancy seeing you here,” he said.
Zander let out a sharp breath. Theo was in awful shape, bruises and gashes covering his face, his shirt soaked through with blood where his shoulder injury reopened. His left eye was so swollen, it was a wonder he could open it.
“Theo,” Zander breathed, walking to kneel next to him. Theo made to sit up, and Zander offered his arm to help. Once he was upright, Zander took his hand and squeezed, a silent apology.
Theo smiled slightly at him. “I’m alright, mate. Been worse.”
Zander offered him the bread from his pocket and Theo took it gratefully, tearing off a small bite with his hands.
“We’re sailing to Cadiz,” Zander said.
Theo nodded, making a noise through the bread in his mouth that indicated he already knew.
They sat in silence for several minutes, Theo chewing and Zander slowly spiraling into the depths of despair and anxiety. Eventually, they heard Yarrow’s voice approaching.
“Next time, next time!” they said. “I’ll make you the best rum punch you’ve ever tasted. Tomorrow. That’s a promise.”
They were ushered into the room by two pirates who seemed less like guards than fans, trailing behind Yarrow good-naturedly and then locking them in the brig with an air of apology, as if they were embarrassed at the inconvenience they were causing. Yarrow waved them off, yawning dramatically and making a big show of sitting as far away from Theo and Zander as possible. They waved goodbye to their new friends, who disappeared above deck and into the cacophony of what sounded like brawling.
Their guard returned a moment later and took up his position by the door, putting up his feet and drinking deeply from a flask.
