Chapter 4 Maximus
Maximus
My telescopic—a magnificent high-tech viewing device with triple-extending brass barrels and multiple lenses—whirred as I adjusted the fittings, scanning the cloud formations ahead for any sign of storm clusters.
Or rather, that’s what I should have been doing at the top of the crow’s nest. Instead, my scope kept drifting down to the main deck, where our newest crew member scrubbed at the wooden planks.
Ghost worked with focused determination, his shoulders hunched as he attacked a particularly stubborn patch of tar with a wire brush.
His copper hair caught the morning sunlight, creating a halo effect that made him almost appear to glow against the worn deck boards.
Those freckled arms flexed with each vigorous motion, and occasional childish curses about phoenix tails and dragon balls floated up to my perch.
My face broke into a smile. Honestly though, it was no wonder half the crew were still giving him shit, even after a week of him being up with us.
A small pile of cleaning supplies surrounded him like a fortress—rags, buckets, and various brushes he’d found from the supply cabinet. His fingers moved with the dedicated precision of a craftsman, though they were currently wrapped around a scrub brush.
My grip tightened on the telescopic as he sat back on his heels. The morning sun highlighted the freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks when he paused to wipe sweat from his brow with a grimy forearm.
The motion left a dark smudge across his pale skin, and he huffed in frustration before dunking his brush back in the bucket.
The water sloshed over the rim, soaking the knees of the dark trousers Murray gave him.
But rather than complain, he simply shifted his weight and attacked the next section of decking with renewed vigor.
It had been the same story no matter the task.
Viper had him cleaning out the cannons yesterday, and he’d returned covered head to foot in soot—with a wide, white smile.
Before that, it was assisting in the galley, where he’d managed to charm extra rations from the usually stern-faced Sage.
Even the tedious task of checking every safety line and harness for wear hadn’t dampened his enthusiasm.
I forced my gaze back to the sky, adjusting the telescopic’s focus with more force than necessary.
The clouds ahead remained stubbornly benign, offering no distraction from the constant movement below.
Ghost was efficient, I’d give him that. It was.
.. disarming, watching someone actually complete their tasks properly for once.
“Reaper? Hello?”
I almost jumped out of my skin.
I whirled around to find Ariella perched on the last ratline of the rigging, her blonde hair tied back in its usual practical ponytail. She raised an eyebrow at me.
“I’ve been calling your name for ages.”
“I was focused on the clouds.” My neck burned, and I fussed with pulling up the sleeves of my loose-fitting white shirt, revealing the red dragon tattoo that snaked around my biceps, its tail stretching all the way to my forearm. “What do you need?”
“Are you alright?”
“Perfectly fine.”
She pulled herself into the crow’s nest, boots landing with a soft thud. “Captain wants more speed. Says we’re moving slower than his grandmother’s funeral procession.”
I glanced at the limp signal flags twitching in the light breeze. “Can you manage it in this calm?”
“Watch.” Ariella closed her eyes, spreading her arms. The air stirred, and tiny motes of silvery light danced between her fingers. My skin prickled as the wind began to build, threading through the rigging with gathering strength. The mainsail creaked as it filled.
Sweat beaded on her forehead. Being a windweaver meant channeling the natural air currents, not creating them from nothing. Even for someone with her talent, forcing movement in dead air drained energy fast.
The ship’s speed increased from a crawl to a steady clip. Ariella lowered her arms, breathing hard. “That’s all I can manage for now. We’ll need to wait for natural winds to pick up if we want even more.”
She leaned against the railing to catch her breath, then nodded toward the deck below. “Your new project seems to be working out. Ghost? Sage says he actually knows how to clean a pot without destroying the seasoning.”
“He’s... adequate.” I adjusted the telescopic, refusing to look down again.
“Adequate enough to keep watching all morning instead of scanning for storms and sails?”
I shot her a glare. She just grinned.
Ariella might be barely nineteen to my thirty-two, but she was one of the few crew members I considered a friend. Which meant, regrettably, tolerating her cheek.
“How’s your family?” I asked her. “You picked up mail from your friend in Embergate, yes?”
Ariella’s smile faded. “Mother’s managing. The money helps, especially with winter coming.” She twisted her braid with her hand. “Though every letter asks when I’ll return from my ‘merchant voyage.’”
Ariella and I had one important thing in common—we were both aboard The Black Wraith as a means to an end.
“You’re never going to tell her?”
“That I’m actually helping pirates raid trade ships?” She barked a laugh. “It would break her heart. Better she thinks I’m just a windweaver on an honest vessel.” Her fingers clenched on the railing. “Though some days, I wonder if I made the right choice staying here after learning the truth.”
I grimaced, remembering how Van Jagger had spun his lies about a “respectable merchant vessel” to secure her windweaver talents. He’d been so incredibly smug that night. Windweavers were as rare as dragon eggs, and he’d wanted one for years.
“At least the pay is better than any merchant ship.” I shifted, the motion sending a spike of pain through my left hip. The cheap prosthetic ground against the socket, reminding me why I myself endured Viper’s increasingly erratic leadership.
Up here in the clouds, I could almost pretend I wasn’t the disgraced former XO Maximus Blackwood, sentenced to death for a crime I didn’t commit.
The wind and altitude kept me safely away from those who might recognize my face and claim the bounty.
And each raid brought me closer to affording a proper prosthetic—one that wouldn’t leave me limping and pain-ridden by day’s end.
Ariella nodded. “Five younger siblings don’t feed themselves. And Mother…” She swallowed. “Well, she does her best. But since Father died…”
“You’re doing right by them,” I said firmly. “That’s what matters.”
“Thanks, Reaper.”
A shout pierced the morning calm. I spun around, the telescopic clattering against the railing.
Below, Butcher’s massive frame loomed over Ghost, while a few crew members looked on. Sunlight gleamed off the boatswain’s bald head as he jabbed a meaty finger into Ghost’s chest. The cleaning brush trembled in Ghost’s white-knuckled grip, though his face was pure fury rather than fear.
Damn it. I’d been so caught up in conversation, I hadn’t noticed Butcher skulking around the deck.
“Sorry, Ariella—”
I swung onto the rigging, ignoring her startled look. The thick rope flew under my hands. Halfway down, I caught sight of Butcher’s fingers curling into Ghost’s shirt.
No time for safety.
I released my grip and dropped the remaining distance. Pain exploded through my hip as I landed hard on my right leg, sending sparks of agony up my spine. But I forced myself forward, boots pounding across the deck.
“Butcher!”
The boatswain turned, revealing his trademark sneer. At six and a half feet of pure muscle, he towered over most of the crew. Crude tattoos covered his thick arms—trophies from past victims, if his drunken boasting could be believed.
Ghost’s green eyes darted between us, his face pale beneath those freckles.
“What happened?” I kept my voice level, though my fingers itched to grab Butcher’s meaty throat. My gaze fixed on Ghost, noting how his shirt clung to his chest, water dripping from the hem.
Ghost’s jaw clenched. “He kicked over my cleaning bucket. Accidentally.” His fingers tightened around the brush handle. “When I said something about it, he dumped his breakfast all over the section I just finished.”
Now that he mentioned it, I spotted the grey slop of morning gruel smeared across the freshly-scrubbed planks.
“Pure accident.” Butcher’s lips curved into an oily smile.
“Clumsy me. Though if the little rat can’t handle a bit of spillage, maybe he’s not cut out for life on board.
” He leaned closer to Ghost, and I could almost smell his rotten breath myself.
“Maybe he’d prefer going for a swim in the clouds? Heard ghosts can float.”
Ghost’s shoulders tensed, but he held his ground. Smart lad—showing fear would only encourage Butcher further.
“Look at him, standing there all pristine and proper.” Butcher circled Ghost like a shark.
“Bet you’ve never done an honest day’s work in your life, have you, pretty boy?
Probably some merchant’s pampered son, who ran away from daddy’s rules.
” He spat on the deck. “We don’t need your kind here, contaminating our air with your fancy manners. ”
The irony of Butcher accusing anyone else of contaminating the air almost made me laugh. The man hadn’t bathed since we left port.
“Even curses like a proper little lordling.” Butcher’s voice rose to a mocking falsetto. “‘Oh, holy phoenix tails, I’ve stubbed my little toe! Mermaid fins and fairy wings, this brush is so heavy!’”
Ghost’s face flushed crimson, the color spreading to the tips of his ears. His knuckles whitened around the brush handle as he stared at the deck.
“That’s enough, Butcher.” I stepped between them, using my body to force the larger man back. “Don’t you have actual work to do? Or is harassing the only crew member who knows how to properly clean a deck more important?”