“Mornin’, Cain,” I say, smiling back.

“Lieutenant Cain,” my father correctssharply. I look up at him and he’s giving me those dark eyes again,sparkling blue under the morning sun but shrouded in shadow fromthe brim of his admiral’s cap.

“Lieutenant Cain,” I mumble, feeling stupid.How can I be a man if I can’t even talk right?

“Mornin’, Huck,” Hobbs says with a sneer.Unlike Cain, he’s never liked me.

I frown at his half-smirk. “Mornin’,” I sayunder my breath.

“Lieutenant,” my father saysagain.

Stupid, stupid. “Lieutenant,” I say.

“So you’re a man today,” Cain says, slappingme on the back with a firm hand. It hurts a little but I’ve neverfelt better.

“I am,” I say, beaming.

“That remains to be seen,” my father says,wiping the grin off my face before it’d even reached my eyes. Howdo I prove myself to him after what happened two yars ago? Mymother’s face flashes through my mind: her quick smile, her greeneyes, her long blond hair. The way she’d read to me at night. Talesof great battles against the Stormers, our independence won andlost and won again. Many yars ago.

Her face again, not smiling this time:awash with terror, twisted and stricken and looking up at me,pleading—her eyes always pleading…

“Huck!” my father barks.

I snap out of the memory, shake my head.Hobbs is snickering while Cain looks at me under a furrowed brow.Father’s lips are unreadable beneath his thick salt-and-pepperbeard. “Wha—what?” I stammer.

“Lieutenant Hobbs asked you a question,” myfather says.

I glance at Hobbs, who looks smug, his handson his hips. “Aye?” I say. Catching myself, I add,“Lieutenant.”

“Have you been practicing your sword work?”Hobbs asks again.

Not the question I expected. For a moment Ilet the warmth of pride fill my heart, because I have. Beenpracticing, that is. Every spare moment I’ve been practicing withthe wooden blade my father gave me when I turned seven. Fightingthe other young boys on the ship, parrying with masts, battlingheavy bags of potatoes and rice. Swinging and swinging my practicesword until it’s become a part of me, an extension of my arm andhand.

I stick my chest out and say, “Aye.”

“Show us,” Hobbs says, a gleam in his darkbrown eyes.

I look at him sideways, wondering what he’sup to, but, not wanting to disappoint my father yet again, I startto pull my wooden sword from where it hangs loosely from mybelt.

“No,” Hobbs says. “Not with that. With this.”He reaches down and picks up a sword, shorter than his, but shinyand sharp and real. And the hilt…

—it has the Admiral’s markings on it, awoman, beautiful and shapely, her hair long and falling in front ofher shoulders to cover her naked breasts. And beneath: the skin ofher stomach gives way to a long tail with scaly fins, like a fish.A merwoman. Identical to the figurehead on the bow of the ship. Theship’s namesake. The Merman’s Daughter.

The sword is my birthright, the sword I willwear until my father dies and I inherit his long-blade. With aslight bow, Hobbs holds it in front of him reverently, offering itto me. Through his long blond bangs, which hang over his eyes, Isee him wink at me as I take it.

Something’s up. Hobbs never winks.

In my grasp, the sword seems to gain weightand I almost drop it, awkwardly bringing my offhand up to balanceit. I hear Hobbs snort, but I ignore him, because this is my time,my day.

My right.

Slowly, I raise the sword to eye level,watching in awe as it seems to catch every ray of red sunlight,sending them shooting in all directions.

My right. My sword.

“Why don’t you give it a try?” Hobbs says,and I sense something in his voice—a challenge.

“Hobbs,” Cain says sharply, sounding sternerthan I’ve ever heard him.

“Uhh, aye,” I say, looking between them,wondering why Hobbs looks so mischievous and Cain so angry.

I move a safe distance away and raise mysword to attack position, my feet planted firmly as I’ve beentaught. I start to swing, but stop when Hobbs laughs. “I meanagainst a real opponent,” he says.

I look back, my prideful chest deflating.“Sir?” I say. I can’t possibly fight him. He’s a man, and I’m…not,regardless of my age and who my father is.

I can feel a crowd gathering, their bootsshuffling on the deck. I whirl around, taking them in, the eyes—somany eyes—staring, waiting, watching. To see what I’ll do. A test.This is exactly the kind of thing my father would do.

My chance. To prove myself. To him.

Maybe my last chance.

My mother’s face, open-mouthed andscreaming. Pleading and pleading.

I grit my teeth, shake my head, nod firmly atHobbs. Raise my sword with two hands in his direction.

He laughs, deep and loud. “Me? You thoughtyou were going to fight me? Don’t insult me, kid. You’ll fightsomeone closer to your own size.” At the same time as I feel angryheat swallow my neck—because he called me kid on the day Ibecome a man—I breathe out a silent sigh of relief. Perhaps I havea chance after all.

I look around, seeing a couple of the guys Ipractice with, Jobe and Ben, looking almost as scared as I feel,afraid they’re about to be asked into the circle with me to provetheir manhood in front of an audience. “Who?” I say, my voicequivering around the single word.

“We don’t want to give you more than you canhandle for your first real fight,” Hobbs says, walking a lazycircle around me. Meaning…what?

“You’ll fight one of the bilge rats,” hesays, the edge of his lip turning up.

“What?” I say, more sharply than I intended.What the hell is going on? “But I can’t possibly…”

“You can and you will,” my father interjects.“Remember what I taught you, Son.”

I frown, remembering his lessons well. Thebilge rats are nothing more than swine, less than human, here toserve us and be trodden under our feet. Nary better than animals,they are. When, as a child, I asked him where the bilge come from,he said, “From nowhere,” like they just popped out of the ground orwere fished from the ocean or dropped from the sky. He wouldn’t sayany more than that and I knew better than to ask.

I nod. If this is what I must do to become aman, I’ll do it.

“Bring him in!” Hobbs hollers and I sensemovement on the port side of the ship. The crowd parts and askinny, brown boy stumbles toward me, being half-dragged and mostlypushed by a strong man I recognize as one of the oarsmen. The bilgerat’s eyes are wide and scared, darting around him, like at anymoment someone might hit him. I’ve seen the boy before but havenever spoken to him. Usually he’s on his knees, scrubbing thedecks, his head hanging in defeat and resignation.

Less than human.

The big oarsman shoves him forward and hetrips, nearly falling into me, but I catch his arm firmly, hold himup. He stares at the sword in my other hand, his jaw tight. For amoment I look at him—really look at him—like I never have before.For this one time, he’s not just an animal, not just an object tobe ignored, like my father always taught me. He looks so human, hisskin browner than mine, aye, but not so different than me afterall.

He jerks away from my grip and a piece of hisdirty, tattered shirt comes away in my fist. I stare at it for amoment and then let it drop to my feet. Hobbs hands the boy an oldsword, even shorter than mine and blunt and rusty around the edges.Unblinking, the boy takes it, swallowing a heavy wad of spittlethat slides down his throat in a visible lump.

How can I fight someone like him?

I have to.

But how? He’s so weak-looking, so scared…

I have no choice.

“Fight,” Hobbs says, backing away, smilingbigger than ever.

I raise my sword, which has fallen loosely tomy side. The bilge rat continues looking at his rusty blade, as ifit’s a snake, but then suddenly grips it tightly, his brownknuckles turning white. He lifts his chin and our eyes meet, and Isee…