The captain’s face is getting redder by thesecond, and I swear he’s about to burst into flames, but then heturns away stiffly, making a show of stomping toward the boat. “Getin,” he says over his shoulder. “Both of you.”

I’ve barely just met the captain, and yet,because of Hobbs, he hates me already.

~~~

I’ve never seen a ship like the Mayhem.

Just like on The Merman’s Daughter, there aremen and women everywhere, but they’re not all working. In fact, Idon’t think half of them are working. As I scan the decks atmid-ship, I spot a dozen people lounging, men and women alike. Tomy left, a fat, grizzly man is slumped against the side of anoverturned barrel, his hand tucked beneath his belt. On my right, askinny fellow with a long, curly mustache snores loudly, his armaround a sleeping woman with a top so tight and low my cheeksflush. With each exhalation, the hairs of his mustache flutter.

Above me, the sails open, but not in anorderly fashion, one at a time, like on my father’s ship, butalmost all at once. The wind catches them despite the numerousholes and tears in the thick cloth, and the ship lurches forward. Igrip the splintery hand rail to stop from falling over.

“A damn, bloody mess,” Hobbs mutters frombeside me. For once, I agree with Hobbs.

But something’s strange, too. Despite thedistinct smell of stale grog and fish that lingers in the air likea cloud, and the strange array of men and women working andlounging, the decks appear to be clean, well-scrubbed and free ofclutter. The contrast is stark.

That’s when I notice them. The bilge rats.There are only four of them, compared to the dozens that work thedecks of my father’s ship, but they’re scrubbing away at the lowerdecks like their very survival depends on keeping the wooden planksclean. Like all bilge rats, they’re brown-skinned and skinny, butmuscular, too, because of all the scrubbing, I guess. Two are boysabout my age, maybe a few yars younger, with sunken eyes and a wiryhunch to their bony shoulders. Another is an older bilge rat man,probably the oldest bilge I’ve ever seen—maybe nineteen, twenty.Usually the bilge don’t live that long, not with the Scurve runningthrough their small, dirty living conditions like a crashingwave.

The fourth rat is a girl who looks around myage with long, dark hair, almost to her waist, braided tightly downthe center of her back like a black spine. She’s on her knees,raking the brush back and forth across the deck with a tenacity andfervor at least twice that of any of the boys working besideher.

I’m dimly aware of Hobbs stalking across thedeck, following the captain. Someone says my name, but the worldhas melted away, and all I can see is this bilge rat, workingharder than I’ve ever seen anyone—rat or sailor, oarsmen ordeckhand—work. For what? For the ship that’s the red, swollenpimple on the fleet’s backside?

And then she suddenly stops and turns, as ifsensing my gaze.

And she sees me, looks right at me, her braidswinging behind her, her legs pushing her to her feet. Her eyes area beautiful shade of brown, almost creamy, the perfect accent toher sun-kissed skin. But they’re flashing with something I didn’texpect. Not wonder, interest, or admiration—nothing good like that.They’re narrowed and burning, almost like the sun is inthem, shooting rays of heat at me. She speaks.

“What the bloody scorch are you lookin’ at?”she says, and I’m not sure what I’m more surprised by, the tone ofher voice or her words. On my father’s ship, a bilge rat speakinglike that to one of the sailors would be thrown overboard, noquestions asked. And I’m no ordinary sailor. I’m an officer and theson of the admiral.

The world that had melted away like a puddleof candlewax in a frying pan returns with a whoosh, as a burst ofwind whips over the hull and across the deck, from starboard toport. The only motion is from the men manning the sails, whocontinue to struggle to get the right tension and direction.Everyone else is frozen, as still as human statues, watching.

The other three bilge rats have stoppedscrubbing and are sitting cross legged, brushes and hands in theirlaps, their eyes wide. Those of the sailors who aren’t asleep havestopped whatever they were doing. They’re looking at me and then atthe bilge rat, back and forth, back and forth, probably wonderingwho will flinch first.

Captain Morrow is standing on thequarterdeck, staring down at me with interest. Hobbs is halfway upthe steps, arms crossed, frowning. My father’s spy. For why elsewould he be here? And this is my first test, whether by chance ordesign, and I’m totally screwing it up. I’m looking around me likea scared little boy, hoping someone will come to my rescue—

“Well?” the girl says, tapping her foot.

—but I’m a lieutenant,

“Are you gonna answer or what?” she adds.

—son of the admiral,

“Or are you too scared?”

—and she’s nothing more than a servant, oneof the rats that come from nowhere, to scrub our decks and cleanour clothes…

But she’s kinda pretty, in ashe-looks-like-she-wants-to-punch-me-in-the-face kind of way.

And I don’t want to cause trouble on my firstday, not when trouble seems to have such a knack for findingme.

In the silence, my boots are like hollowthunder as I walk across the deck. I know where I should bewalking, where Hobbs would walk: toward the bilge rat to teach hersome manners.

Feeling shaky, I reach the steps to thequarterdeck and climb them, brushing past Hobbs and ignoring thecaptain’s eyes following my every step.

“I’d like to see my cabin,” I say, my voicecoming out high and weak.

~~~

Hobbs sneers, looking at me with no lessdistaste than he would if I was a rotten fish on his supperplate.

“A bit of grog and a shiny new officer’suniform don’t make you a man,” he says, spitting out the wordman.

I have a hundred comebacks planned, cleverwords that would put him in his place, teach him some manners, shuthim up and make his face go red, but as I try to speak, they jam inmy throat, a jumble of disjointed words, tangled, turning to ash,choking me. My mouth is dry, and whatever threads of pride anddignity I had left this morning have been snipped by the scissorsof fate and my own weakness, worthless except to a scavenging birdseeking to build a nest.

Because I walked away from a rat. A rat whoinsulted me (with pretty eyes), who made me look like a child infront of the men I’m meant to lead. I know what my father would’vedone. Strutted up to her, slapped her hard across the face,probably kicked her to the deck, and had her thrown to thesharp-tooths. Made an example out of her.

The bilge rats will respect you if theyfear you, he once told me after I’d just watched him manhandlea new rat who wouldn’t stop crying. The boy was no older than me atthe time, seven yars old. A child.

And his words from earlier: Beware thebilge rats…They’re not like us. They’ll do anything to bring youdown, to make you as low as they are. Don’t trust them. They aretools to be used, nothing more.

It’s almost like he knew I’d have troublewith them. It took me all of a few seconds on my new ship to failat the hands of a bilge rat.

Lost in my thoughts, I’ve forgotten aboutHobbs. “Don’t you have anything to say for yourself, boy?”he says, stepping forward, so close I can see the dark tobaccostains on his teeth.

I feel tears coming, but I hold them back,determined not to fall further into the deep sea of embarrassmentthan I already have.

Hobbs draws his sword and my eyes bulge outof my head, because this close it’s so shiny, so sharp, gleamingand glinting in the sun, glittering silver against the sandybackdrop.

Something doesn’t make sense. Where’d all thesand come from? It’s all around me, churning like waves, grabbingat my legs, pulling me under. I’m sinking.