“Alright, suppose you’re telling the truth,” Zayan interjects, his tongue resting against his cheek, skepticism barely veiled. “What would you do if we hadn’t shown up, then? How would you have gotten out alone? You’re not exactly the Lady’s favorite, are you?”
Oh, I’m definitely her favorite—favorite to torment.
“Our men would be praying to their gods—maybe even her,” I say dryly, shrugging at the mention. “But Ridley and I? We’d keep on as we came in—sailing blind, spinning circles, listening for where the buzzing fades. Somewhere in that dead silence, there’d be a breach. We’d find it. Might take months, but we’d get through.”
“A couple of months, huh?” Zayan’s lips twist in a grin, his tone mocking. “Quite a bit of time.”
“It’s nothing compared to how long I’ve already spent on this cursed quest.”
“Does the ship have resources to last that long?” Gypsy asks.
Vinicola beats me to it.
“Oh, it has,” he says, nodding enthusiastically, his hands rising as he mimes an explosion near his temples. “The stuff they’ve got on board... it’s crazy! They’ve even got this whole water filtering contraption that lets you drink seawater—if you wait, like, a little while. And there’s a whole space for growing plants and whatnot. This isn’t just any old ship.”
Gypsy’s brow arches. She hasn’t toured the ship like Vinicola has, let alone struck up a conversation with the crew like Zayan did. She threw herself straight into captaincy, straight into navigating out of here. Meanwhile, Vinicola wandered around before that nap we took in the quarters—before Zayan stormed in, clearly itching to pull Gypsy aside for that oh-so-private chat he justhadto have.
Pity, by the way. That nap was the best sleep I’ve had in weeks.
“Nothing makes seawater drinkable,” Gypsy says, her voice dry with skepticism. She glances my way, eyes narrowing. “Sure of that?”
“Sure as salt itself.” I shrug, matching her look with a nonchalance of my own. “That’s all we drink on this ship.”
She eyes me with that wary stare, jaw working as she chews over my answer. Finally, she nods. “Alright, then. Tell me how it works, and I might give it a try. Otherwise, you’ll find me sticking to rain barrels, like any sensible pirate.”
Ridley steps forward, a glint of pride in his old eyes as he takes the cue. “It’s a desalination system, Captain. An old, almost forgotten method we managed to bring back to life here on board. We use heat to evaporate seawater, leaving the saltbehind, and then condense the steam into drinkable water. Not quick, but reliable enough.”
“Old, you say?” she queries. “Just how old are we talking? And where’d you get this miracle system from?”
I smirk. “Bought the blueprints off a collector. Had to build it ourselves, though. It’s part of why we’re all rooming together. Big ship, yes, but bigger needs. Takes up space to keep the whole lot sustainable.”
Her skepticism softens slightly, though her gaze remains sharp. “I’ll admit, that’s impressive. But a garden, too?” She looks between us, her wariness laced with a hint of interest. “You’re telling me there’s some kind of vegetable patch on board?”
Vinicola beams, stepping forward with a dramatic wave of his arms. “Oh, Captain, if only you’d seen it! It’s a full setup—herbs, greens, all thriving right in the heart of the ship. And there’s this sunlamp they rigged up to keep it growing, even below deck. Can you believe it?”
Gypsy’s brow lifts, an almost amused look flickering across her face. “So, seawater wine and a pirate’s paradise, all rolled up under one deck?”
“Still need to hit the ports,” I add, cutting in before Vinicola can get carried away. “What we grow’s a supplement. Makes the rations stretch, lets us eat something green now and then, but it’s not enough to last the whole crew on a long run. Can’t live off dried meat and hardtack alone.”
“Smart,” she nods, a slight smirk tugging at the edge of her mouth. “Stretching the rations, getting creative with the green stuff… I’d say that’s damn near civil of you.”
Ridley clears his throat. “If we’re laying it all out for her, Captain should know about the armory too.”
She perks up at that. “Now that sounds more like it.”
Ridley inclines his head slightly, his voice lowering, as if even speaking of it is enough to conjure something from the shadows. “We’re stocked well—more than well, really. Not just with conventional weapons, either. Some of what we’ve got on board is… unconventional.”
Gypsy raises an eyebrow. “Unconventional as in…?”
“Artifacts,” I say, holding her gaze. “Objects that defy reason. Cursed blades, bullets that never miss, relics passed through pirate hands for centuries. Some were bought; most were stolen.”
From my left, a loud gasp cuts through the air. Vinicola’s eyes are wide as he stares, mouth agape. “Are you telling me we have magical objects on board?”
“Call them what you want.” I shrug. “But yes, they’re far more than tools. Anyway,” I smack my lips, shifting focus, “we’re here to talk about the Trials. Ridley and I have filled you in plenty. What about your stories?”
“Didn’t peg you for someone who cared,” Gypsy says, sitting back down.
“I don’t,” I answer sharply. “But I need to know who I’m stuck with if my life depends on it.”
