George grits his teeth. “She should be,” he says, just as all the sailors salute to the last man to hoist himself from the ladder and onto the deck. Though man seems generous, as he looks younger than I am, and I would hardly consider myself an adult. He has the same enormous eyes as the woman in the scarf, though they look more excessively large in a face that he seems to be still growing into. His shoulders are disproportionately broad to his narrow frame, and his shoes make his feet look several sizes too big for his body. He’s covered in tattoos, the ink darker than his brown skin. The most prominent one is the sign of the Crown and Cleaver inked straight over his heart, visible as the neck of his open shirt dips.
As soon as his boots hit the planking, he spits onto the deck. “Holy shit. If I’d known it was the Eleftheria in distress, I wouldn’t have bothered coming.”
“That,” George says with resignation, “is the commodore.”
15
If the commodore knows the names of any of the crew, he doesn’t bother greeting them. Instead, he points straight to me. “Who is that?” he demands in French. His voice is deep in a way that sounds affected, the reedy pitch of adolescence still audible.
“Our charter,” George replies.
The commodore laughs. He has a pistol in one hand, swinging it so casually it’s either not loaded, or he has no regard for firearm safety. “You don’t have a charter. Who would want this junker taking them anywhere?”
George hands over the paperwork he was issued in Rabat—I’m not sure if they’re forged, though the likelihood seems high. I hold my breath as the commodore reviews them with one eyebrow arched. The gold hoops he has in both ears glitter when the sun strikes them. He scans the pages too quickly, then thrusts them to the woman in the scarf, with the supercilious air of someone who hasn’t actually read what they’re about to comment upon. I’ve seen members of the peerage do the same thing—hand off a document to someone else to summarize to them under the guise of asking for an opinion.
But instead of commenting upon our papers, he turns and comments upon the other foreign object present, which is me. “So who are you, exactly?” George starts to answer on my behalf, but the commodore holds up a hand. “Am I addressing you, Georgie?”
George ducks his chin. “No, sir.”
“Then don’t answer.” He turns his huge eyes back to me. They’re the color of liquid amber. “In your own time.”
I swallow, and decline to point out that my name is on the documentation he just purportedly read. “I’m Adrian.”
“Adrian.” He repeats it in a mocking pitch, and I clear my throat self-consciously. It’s not at its level best but surely my voice didn’t come out quite that high. “You’re English?” he demands, and when I nod, crosses his arms. His shirtsleeves bunch at his elbows, revealing more ink scenes and symbols on both his forearms. It makes my skin crawl to think of sitting still so long, being repeatedly poked by needles. “And you thought it would be—what? Fun to charter a pirate ship? A real laugh to tell your boys back home about?”
I can hear George grinding his teeth next to me. I resist the urge to look over at him, for some cue or hint as to how I’m meant to have a conversation with this pettiest of tyrants. “I needed a ship to Portugal.”
The commodore swings his pistol in a circle around his finger. “There are passenger liners for that, did you know? Or are you one of those noblemen who will only travel if they don’t have to mingle with the commonfolk, lest they muddy their expensive shoes?”
“There were extenuating circumstances,” I reply.
He stares at me, and I can tell extenuating isn’t in his French vocabulary. It’s hardly in mine—I’m suddenly worried I’ve misused it. I hook my thumbs into the buttonholes at my sleeves, pushing hard enough that one of the seams rips.
Rather than ask for clarification—or a definition—the commodore whirls on George again, the tails of the red sash around his middle flying. “What are you doing sending up flares, Georgie? We’re now leagues off our course because we had to come running to save you.”
“I apologize, Commodore,” George replies. If he clenches his teeth any harder, he’ll crack them. “Our rudder was damaged in a storm.”
“You should have abandoned it and taken your longboats to land,” the commodore says. “This rig isn’t worth the timber it will take to repair.”
“And a man of ours is hurt,” George says, and his eyes dart to mine. “He’ll die without a doctor.”
“Sailors die,” the commodore says bluntly. “Get a stronger stomach.”
“Saad,” the woman in the scarf says, her voice low and warning.
He looks back at her, eyes wide in imitation. “Sim.”
But then she says, voice quiet but stern, “Don’t.”
His brow furrows—one word and suddenly he’s a scolded schoolboy. He looks his age, and he’s young. He’s so young. I had been subtracting and adding years to my estimation with every posturing retort, trying to guess based on both the fleet ink covering his body and the patchy hairs on his upper lip, thin and sparse as hatch marks. He can’t be more than five and ten.
Saad runs a hand over his shaved head, and I can’t tell if he’s rerouting his approach after the scolding from Sim, or if he’s angry at her for it. He turns back to George, his heel digging into the planking of the ship. He almost steps out of his shoe, and I realize that his feet aren’t actually as big as they look—he’s wearing boots that are too large for him. Surely the commodore of a fleet this large and prosperous should be able to afford boots that fit.
I think for a moment he’s going to apologize to George for speaking so callously, but instead he says, his voice less hard-edged, “Who’s injured?”
“One of my men,” George replies.
From over the commodore’s shoulder, Sim says, “All the men on your manifest are on deck.”
George doesn’t say anything.
Saad claps his hands behind his back and rocks on his heels. “We’re all waiting, Georgie.”
“It’s my brother,” I say. It is perhaps not the wisest decision on my part, but I’m worried the commodore is going to turn around and leave us stranded in the middle of the ocean unless we start having quicker conversations. George’s hand twitches at his side, like he’s resisting the urge to clap it over my mouth, but before he can move, I add, “Henry Montague.”
Considering the welcome we received in Rabat, I should have anticipated the reaction that invoking the name Montague might elicit. But instead of the spitting and swearing we got from Basira Khan, the deck goes silent. Even the wind seems to pause, the shredded sails wafting from the masts falling suddenly slack. The soldiers who accompanied the commodore glance at each other in apprehension, then look back to their leader.
Saad considers this for a moment, his face impassive. Then he lets out a barking laugh and turns. He points with a flat hand toward the Dey. “Back to the longboats!”
“Saad,” Sim snaps, though she looks like she too would have preferred to hear any other name besides my family’s.