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Keza was swabbing the deck on The Red Falcon. The boat bobbed on the waves, but even the relatively tame movement was enough to jostle Keza as she wrestled with the desk brush. Even after two weeks at sea, she still hadn’t quite found her sea legs. She hadn’t found the right way to hold the brush so it didn’t give her blisters on her hands, either. Privateer Edesii always made fun of her hands – she said she had rich girl hands, with her long, manicured nails that had yet to break tying ropes or hoisting the sail. Keza didn’t mind. The Seafury Buccaneers were the first people in her life who had the guts to look down on her for being who she was. She had never felt different or out of place in her sheltered life among the wealthy Teir’Dal of North Freeport. Finally not fitting in was exhilarating. And despite everything, everyone was still willing to share their rum with her. She drank until her head hurt every night; when she had too much, she could lean over the railing to spare herself having to clean up. The moist, salty air made her hair frizz and curl in a way not even the air on the land in Freeport had. She was free, and even though Lieutenant D’Raka was approaching her in a bad mood, she wasn’t worried. If they threw her overboard for being a terrible pirate, she would at least die having had her vindication – having rejected all her family’s halfwitted bourgeois hopes for her.
“Siren wants to talk to ye, ye bilge rat,” said D’Raka.
Keza rolled her eyes. “When are you going to stop calling me that?”
“When ye’ve worked yer way up to landlubber. Don’t keep her waiting!”
Keza delicately balanced the desk brush against one of the ship’s railings. It promptly clattered back to the deck. D’Raka shook her head as Keza trotted off to Captain Siren’s cabin.
She made it to the cabin door without falling down once – that had to be some kind of new record – and knocked on the wooden door. The varnish was starting to peel off and the hinges creaked as Siren opened the door. She was just a hair taller than Keza, who was fairly well-built for a dark elf, and the light of the whale oil candle sputtering behind her cast menacing shadows on the slope of her cheekbones and reflected on the edge of her eyebrow piercing.
“Keza,” said Siren. “Come in.” Keza obeyed and Siren slammed the door shut behind her. The captain settled into her armchair, which was suspended from the ceiling, and motioned for Keza to take a seat. She perched deferentially on a crate next to the narrow bed.
“I don’t mince words,” said Siren. “You are one terrible fucking pirate.”
“I know,” said Keza.
“Did you think it would be all booty and rum and plunder? Wanted to get back at mommy and daddy for making you lead a sheltered life?”
“Yes.”
“But you didn’t know it takes a lot more than swords and poisons to keep a ship running.” Siren tented her fingers.
“Maybe I’m just not cut out for physical labor,” Keza suggested.
Siren snorted. “No shit you aren’t.”
“So what are you going to do with me?”
“Turn you out at port. Get you out of my sight. Where you end up once you’re back on land is no concern of mine.”
Keza sat up a bit straighter. “I have a counter-offer.”
“Sure, we can make you walk the plank instead.”
“No. You said yourself it takes a lot more than swords and poisons to keep a ship running. It needs deck swabbers – which we both know I’m no good at – but it also needs provisioners, it needs navigators, and … it needs strumpets.”
Siren stared at Keza for a moment. Then she doubled over on herself, howling with laughter as the shadows danced on her face. Keza could only look on, mortified.
The captain finally collected herself. “Did you read that in the pirate dictionary?” she asked.
Keza nodded sheepishly.
“Unbelievable, Keza! Well, fine. Who am I to deny a bilge rat her chance to climb the ladder? Get on the bed, wench.”