I used to enjoy my work. It felt like an honest living.

However, even the title I hold is a lie. I’ve been a servant in House Cartwright from youth and worked my way from hallboy to valet in record time.

Today, thanks to my natural skill, the length of my tenure, and my audacity in securing my employment, I’ve enjoyed luxuries that skirt the familial.

I’ve a room that should house guests and my own tutor. Assuming no one calls, I’m afforded a seat at the table for afternoon tea. In short, I’ve lived the life of a respected gentleman, albeit one with no real money of my own.

Shame the gilded pillars of House Cartwright turned to sulphur the moment I realized they formed a cage. Excuse my sullen disposition. It’s been a trying…decade.

Still. Novelty is far too rare these days, and victory is rarer. Dividing another year of tedious sameness, today I set sail on a mighty East Indiaman Galleon!

Though it’s an experience I’ve long coveted, I’ve never been on a boat. Hell, until this morning, I’d never even seen a boat outside of illustrations.

The lapse is rather shocking, given the proximity of the knight’s estate to a fishing port, yet the nearest I’ve come was the glimpse of a mast over a rooftop on an otherwise grey evening.

They tell me we’ll be underway in a bell, and that sounds like it’s meant to convey brevity!

Cartwright insists the ocean air will cure my lethargy and headaches. I don’t believe he realizes how much of that is his fault. Ah well, it matters little. I should be dead before autumn and free to join Matthias.

The thought smacks me through the sternum and sends a warm tingle to my fingertips. If Life hadn’t gutted and stuffed me with down, I might even describe the sensation as giddy!

I allow my thoughts to linger as I tuck my rough-hewn trunk behind a few hammocks in the crew quarters.

“Morning, Walsh.”

I try to pop the ringing from my ear as I turn toward the unfamiliar voice. The sight of the speaker doesn’t aid in his identification. He’s a solid tar with ash brown hair pulled neatly from his weathered face.

“Good morning,” I reply.

Something akin to disappointment flits across his delved brow.

It grates that I’ve so completely forgetten someone. I offer a gentle comment of, “I see…I see you’ve a passenger just there,” and motion to the black cat on the sailor’s shoulder. It’s draped behind his neck, cleaning a paw with prissy decorum.

Anyone with an attachment to a beast loves others to comment on them.

True to form, he beams. “Seaworthy. She’s the finest mouser to grace the sea.” His blue-green eyes flit to my trunk. “ML?” he asks, motioning to the monogrammed plate.

I rub the back of my neck and move myself into his line of sight. “It was an inheritance from a cousin.”

“Ah.”

I tap my toe on the board and clear my throat. When the man won’t leave, I resume my task, at a loss for alternatives.

A lifetime in House Cartwright has taught me not to turn my back to a stranger, so it makes for a rather awkward pose.

“Have you chanced to meet the captain?”

I suppress an irritated sigh, but only just. “Not yet.”

“You’ve heard of him, though.”

The man is determined to make small talk. At last, I turn to him. “Aye. Captain Zechariah. You doubtless know more than I.” I don’t mention the mental image I’ve fashioned of the man in the idle hours leading to this adventure. I’m sure he has fine skin, dark hair, an aura of command, and a finely pressed shirt with a flowing cravat.

I’m certain he’s the type of man to own a sword-cane.

This man is handsome, but in a different way. His skin is golden and what build shows through his well-tailored gray overcoat is strong. There’s rigidity moulding his casual affectation. His clothes are clean and immaculately tailored.

Took me a moment, but I’m realizing that something about him doesn’t fit.

The sailor catches my eyes in their survey. We both avert our gaze. “I suppose I do,” he replies, flaring his coat aside to pluck out a work knife. He scrapes its tip under his nails.

Seaworthy gives the sailor a look that borders on anthropomorphic exasperation before disembarking his shoulder.

I clear my throat. “I own, I’ve never been aboard a vessel, but I wasn’t expecting the first sailor I met to speak with the cadence of a gentleman.”

He laughs and though he doesn’t lift his eyes; I spy a smile crinkling their edges. “There are officers even on merchant vessels.”

My heart sputters. I’ve been addressing a gentleman as an equal. “I am sorry, sir; I meant no disrespect.”

“Think nothing of it. I owe you an apology as well. I thought we’d been introduced.” Finished with cleaning his nails, he produces an apple from somewhere under his coat and slices off a piece.

That hardly seems a clean practice.

“I don’t believe so, sir.”

“Ah, pity.” He shakes off the look crossing his oceanic eyes before glancing up with a smile that no long reaches them. “I’m the navigator. I’ve received an excess of schooling.” He chuckles. “I’ve not had a valet compliment my English.”

“You’ve heard of me then?” Blast. I wanted to be a novelty to the sailors, as they are to me. I’d hoped for a reprieve in my last days, but it appears I must battle my way up the social ladder, as per usual.

“Cartwright’s looking for you,” Baker announces from my elbow.

I jump despite myself and grit my teeth. “Understood.”

The butler pauses his retreat to give the sailor a shallow bow and says, “Good morning, sir. Are you in need of anything?”

I stare. At the butler, then the navigator. Baker’s title of butler is as much a fiction as mine of valet and Ulysses’ of cook. He only uses formal addresses for those of an equal or higher social rank to our master.

The man waves him off. “No thank you, Baker. I was just helping Walsh settle into his quarters.”

Baker turns with a smile. His eyes sweep around the alcove, lingering over the wood trunk, before meeting my eye. His unnerving smile widens. He turns back to the navigator. “Let me know if you need anything, sir.”

As soon as Baker is out of earshot, I hiss, “Damn it!” in the same instance the navigator mutters, “Tosser” at his back.

“What was that?” the sailor asks crunching a chunk of apple with a furrow delving his brow.

Neither acknowledging nor explaining, I yank the trunk from its half concealed location and march through the ship, trying to remember its layout. At one point, I ascend a flight of stairs and I’m sure I’ve gotten lost.

Maintaining a shocking inability to read a room, the navigator follows, asking, “Whatever is the matter?”

Ah, there. The one emotion that’s radiated through the shaded haze of these endless years: Rage. It bubbles from stern to bow as the sailor trails behind, heavy feet echoing over my own. At last I turn. Biting my tongue long enough to swallow a thousand oaths, I say quite calmly, “Sir. I need you to stop following me, please.”

“Why?” he asks, chewing a deafeningly crunchy slice of apple.

Something snaps in me here. Pushing aside Baker’s deference toward the sailor and ignoring his comment about officers…well, I’m not proud of this, but I slap the apple from his hand.

The navigator is almost amused until he sees my face and his mirth makes way for sorrow. “What has Cartwright done to you?”

I must be the golden chub. He’s heard of me and thus, he’s heard of my master. If the fates had blessed him with a sense of humor, I’d assume Baker was in on the joke.

“Stop pretending we’ve met! That play only works on the young and the simple — and I may not be an elder, but I’m an old bird, sir.” I tack the honorific on with gusto. “You wish me to believe that you’ve known me, yet you’ve rank, which means we’d only have met through my master. Gentlemen aren’t in the habit of calling on their neighbors’ servants, sir.”

There’s another shred of a smile pulling at the man’s lip, even as his brows knit together.

It only adds heat to my cheeks. “However, sir, if you truly knew me, you’d know I’m the valet of The Right Honorable Sir Cartwright, Former Lord-Mayor of Dublin. Few are the gentry whose rank is lofty enough to meet his.”

I can’t do it. I can’t suppress an eye roll at the last sentence.

The sailor’s smile widens to an impish grin. “You adulate your master even as you mock him. Your tone is so genuine. How do you do that?”

I freeze and ask with a low voice, “Are you simple, or do you spy for him?”

The man matches my volume and says, “I’m not simple, and I spy for no one but myself.”

“Then why do you follow me?”

“You seem an interesting fellow.”

“I would like to be alone while I transplant my belongings.”

“Surely you don’t fear Baker knowing where you lay your head?”

“We live on the same estate. There’s no avoiding that knowledge wherever we abide.”

“Then why move?”

“I don’t move myself, I move my belongings.”

“Do you hide them at home?”

“That depends entirely upon the belonging.” I gnaw on my lip. “There are more than just the two levels to a galleon, aren’t there?”

A metaphoric mask drops from his features. “More than just the two?”

“Yes, this one and the one above.”

“The…the one above?”

“Yes, where I saw the ship’s doctor taking a constitutional earlier.”

“That’s the Half-Deck. This is the Upper Gun-Deck. You think these are the only two levels?”

“No,” I bite, feeling my cheeks flush hotter under his scrutiny. “I believe I began my query with the assumption that there are over two. Besides, you found me on the deck below…” Lord, the flush to my cheek is doubtless visible now. I turn away to mumble to myself, “Gods, why did I ask that?”

“I feel like I’ve handed you an orange and you’ve asked if there’s more to the fruit than the rind.”

“I’ll just find the ladder down myself, then.”

“No, Walsh, my apologies. There’s a ladder just that way.” He points…somewhere I think we’ve come from. “Before you leave, why go to all this trouble to move your things?”

“If you knew my master, you would know that I must hide some things.” My eyes fix on an interesting knot on the rough wooden deck.

When I look up again, he’s studying the engraved plate on my trunk more intentionally. I cover the letters with my spare hand, as if protecting something sacred. 

The navigator gives me a smile I’d consider altogether too knowing. “Ah, yes. He must never see treasures that might raise an eyebrow. Did he not know of it before?”

I’m not sure I should answer, but my instincts don’t prohibit it. “He didn’t know for certain that I treasured it.”

“It seems a solid enough piece. You could have argued for utility over sentimentality. Won’t moving it merely confirm its value?”

“You confound me, sailor. In one breath, you say something that makes me feel you must know my master, and another that proves you could not. Sir, have you seen the ostentatious wardrobe brought aboard for Baker? Most fashionable souls would commit unspeakable crimes for the chance to work with the tailor my lord uses for his butler. Do you not think I have better luggage?”

“So the mere presence of such a…Utilitarian piece proves its sentimentality?”

“Just so, sir.”

A familiar step sounds on the boards ahead. “Damn. That’s Cartwright.”

“Go!”

My heart beat drowns out my common sense as I try to recall whence I’ve come.

The navigator turns me toward a far doorway with a gentle shove. “There. The ladder’s just through that door. I’ll hold the puff guts at bay.”

With wide eyes and shaking feet, I make it all the way down the ladder before I register the term puff guts. I snort at the nickname.

With little conscious input, I descend two levels and open a hatch to another. It’s dark and cool below, despite the occasional lamp casting an eerie, yet somehow comforting, amber glow through the rooms.

I war with myself as I stare into that poetically somber storeroom. If Baker were to seek my treasure, it’ll either be the first or last place he looks.

After all, if one doesn’t wear sepia-tinted glasses, one wouldn’t see a mildew-infested storeroom quite the way I do.

I do hope I’m not stabbed.

I find an inconspicuous corner and secret my treasure behind a stack of goods. On my way out, I notice a note carved in the wall. The script is perfect, hewn with mathematical precision. It says:

I remember these days! Don’t you?

Below, the same handwriting continues.

Nay, we were young. It was before we could even see the game.

I pass through the doorway, shaking my head to clear the ringing from my ears.

The air cools as I pass to the other side. If convinced to speak of it at all, I would have sworn the room had rearranged before my very eyes.

Something about this room and the note on the wall chills me.

My egress is much faster than my entry.

The navigator is still chatting with Sir Cartwright when I return. I stand beside the open door, hoping to catch a stray word or two.

“But of course, Tobias,” the navigator says. He laughs. “If you cannot use my title, then I see no point in using yours.”

My blood goes cold. That man is powerful, or he is fish food. Sir Cartwright holds his family name close to his heart and has challenged many unlucky men for less.

No one uses Cartwright’s Christian name — not even his sister. He prefers to be referred to by his full title, even in the internal monologues of his staff.

Then again, perhaps he is a close friend of Cartwright’s. He and his friends rarely have complimentary conversations. I’ve seen men attempt murder against him and sacrifice their own lives for him with no difference in how they’re treated.

Cartwright leaves without another word, beating a noisy retreat up the stairs. The sailor chuckles before muttering, “Cork-brained puckfist.”

“You’re a madman,” I inform him.

“What more can he do than he’s already done?” The sailor directs the question more to himself than in answer. In fact, he scarcely seems aware of anyone else’s presence until I step beside him. With a furrow to his brow, he asks, “You’re done, then?”

“Aye. You have my thanks for the distraction.”

The man nods. “I’ll be direct. Every modicum of your demeanor, from the tilt of your head to the shuffle of your feet, draws to me and begs for help. I’m in the habit of helping those who wish to help themselves.”

“I need no one’s help,” I reply, my voice tinged with bitterness that I can’t quite strain out of it. What use have I of help?

“Oh…” The sailor arches an eyebrow. “My mistake. Of course, you clearly have your life in hand.”

“I beg for your attention, Sir,” I reply, enunciating the honorific to its fullest.

The man raises his other eyebrow.

“I am not a nightingale for the local Squire of the Body to purchase for his kindly benevolence.”

The sailor’s attitude smolders from the embers of my fire. “I do not seek to purchase your body.”

“What then, my friendship? Are you so uncertain of your social graces you would seek to make friends through the purchase of their debt? If you aren’t a broker, then your trade is information.”

“What of you? The title of valet is a deception.”

“I’ve yet to find an accurately classified servant in House Cartwright.“

“You speak harshly of a master who has provided you with better luggage, as you called it. You and the butler share the throne as Cartwright’s favored servants. I’m certain you’ve access to these coveted tailors and England’s finest tutors. He now brings you on an expensive voyage to the Ionian Sea, a location featured in many Greek myths. I understand those are a favorite of yours.”

I chastise myself for not thinking of that earlier. Of course, the other servants would buzz about my love of mythology.

I realize the man is still talking.

“You may not be a nightingale for purchase, but it seems you’re already so employed.”

Ah yes, the implication is that the lifelong bachelor has been poking the powder puff. What a novel rumor.

“Yes, your reputation is already spreading,” the man continues, “The others wouldn’t have heard of you, were it not for fellow servants like that…Timothy Tomlinson chap, warning their new travel companions to stay away from you.”

I blink back stinging tears whose existence I’ll never completely acknowledge to myself. “What’s your name?” I growl in my most menacing tone.

“You know my name.”

“Damn your blood, I do not. We’ve never been introduced.”

“You speak with such hostility to a gentleman?” the sailor asks, his icy glare warming a touch.

“I speak with honest sentiment to one goads me.”

“This is how my offer of assistance is answered?” He seems more surprised than angry now.

“Ah yes, your kind offer. You were rather quick to extend your help to me, weren’t you? I understand trap, sir.

“We deal in the same currency, you and I: information. You’ve done your homework and, well, I didn’t expect to meet such an actor here, but I can see that you’re high-ranking, powerful, or both.

“However, I must remind you who I am. My role is to befriend people and dissolve established hierarchies. What makes you think the knight doesn’t want me to take advantage of your help? Know the enemy and know thyself and victory is not in question, not in a hundred battles.”

“Sun Tzu.”

“Aye. So what if Cartwright sent me to work against you? There’s a reason he brought me. And he never brings me for a good reason; not for those around me, anyway. So think about it. Ask yourself, what if Cartwright brought me aboard to use my friendship against you?”

“I would ask very nicely for you to tell me ahead of time.”

The navigator’s cheeky reply surprises a laugh out of me. “I don’t know what I’m doing until a scheme is well under way.“

“Would you defy him?”

“Would you believe any answer I would give?”

“You deflect my question.”

“As have you, through the duration of this dialogue.” I shrug and hug my arms across my chest. “The only way to ensure the safety of you and your crew is for all of you to hate me.”

“Why? Can’t you defy him? You have as much choice in your role as any man.”

“Ah, yes, choice. I have the choice to work or starve. I have the choice to obey or suffer the consequences of disobedience.” Years of embarrassment have me drawing my pruned digit from the handsome navigator. “As you say, I’ve as much choice as any man.”

“You refuse to help, then you divulge private information. You play the carrier, yet you deny being for hire.”

“Sir, I do not offer my services for sale. I do not offer them at all, in fact. I merely gave you a modicum of advice for my amusement, out of respect for a fellow tongue pad. However, I must also play my role. There are fates worse than death and I’d rather avoid those.”

“How does one trust an internal spy?”

“How can a spy trust anyone but himself?”

The sailor furrows his brow and walks to the other room. I follow without knowing why.

Turning back, he asks, “Why are you so quick to betray his trust?”

“You assume I’ve betrayed him. Remember my role. He could have directed me to warn you away. Men often seek that which is denied them.”

“I believe you speak honestly.”

“I believe you are a golden chub to hear the truth from Cartwright’s nightingale.”

The navigator stares through me. His gaze peels away layers of armor that have rusted over things I don’t even like to think about. I’ve never felt laid bare before anyone like this. Not Baker or Cartwright. Not even Matthias.

The sailor asks, “Why speak with such candor to a stranger?”

“Perhaps I’d rather end my career on the side of my choosing. Perhaps I tire of watching groups torn apart in the name of avarice.” I chuckle. “Perhaps I’ve grown bored with easy victories. Do masters of games not play more against themselves than their opponents?” I look over his finely tailored yet practical suit and think about the manners that keep trying to surface. “Whatever my part in this play, I really must know yours. Do you truly spy for yourself or do you spy for the captain?”

“Can’t it be both?” The navigator laughs as he lifts his hand to the door.

The last puzzle piece clicks into place. My hands turn clammy. “By god, I do know your name. You command respect from the least accommodating butler in England. You call my master by his Christian name to his face, yet you receive no reprimand.” I can’t help but tip my head at his play. “Today, I am the country chub, for you are no navigator.”

The sailor’s mask is a politician’s smile as he replies, “I’m not in the habit of lying, Walsh. As I understand, that’s your purview. Navigator is a favored part of my duties.”

I quirk what I hope is a cheeky smile and reply, “A lie is a lie, even one built of omissions.”

The sailor doesn’t seem to appreciate that declaration and mutters through tight lips, “Well then.” He dons a leather tricorn hat, narrow enough along the sides to be an onyx spearhead. “Allow me to remedy my deception.”

He takes a deep breath, and his demeanor transforms. With an infinitesimal straightening of his subtle slouch, he shifts from casual camaraderie to this bearing of authority. He’s not the tallest man, but his air of command warps those cubits to a towering giant.

His cadence could tune a metronome as he walks into the open air and a voice from the ropes above calls, “Captain on the deck!”