Drake stood on the waist deck, his small hands gripping the railing as he looked up at the towering mainmast.
He had been on board for three hours.
In that time, he had counted four structural inefficiencies in the rigging, a starboard list that suggested uneven ballast, and a crew discipline that relied more on the whip than on competence.
It was, in short, a disaster waiting for a stiff breeze. But it was a rich disaster.
Valerius's flagship was three times the size of his father's sloop. It carried sixty guns, a crew of four hundred, and enough ego to sink a continent.
"You're in the way, rat."
He turned to see a burly man in a striped shirt, holding a coil of rope like a weapon.
This was Bosun Krunk, a man whose neck was wider than his forehead.
"The wind is shifting," Drake said, his voice flat. He pointed a small, grime-stained finger at the pennant fluttering atop the mizzenmast.
"If you don't slacken the braces on the main yard, you're going to snap the parrel beads. Again."
Krunk blinked. His brain, seemingly powered by grog and malice, struggled to process the input.
A six-year-old was not supposed to know what a parrel bead was.
"You cheeking me, boy?" Krunk growled, stepping forward. The deckboards creaked under his weight.
"I'm offering a diagnostic assessment," Drake replied.
"But by all means, tighten it. I enjoy the sound of snapping timber."
Krunk's face turned a mottled shade of plum.
He raised a hand, thick as a ham, ready to backhand the insolence out of the new ward.
"Touch him, and my father will have you keelhauled before supper."
The voice cut through the humid air.
Drake and Krunk both turned. Standing on the quarterdeck stairs, looking down at them with an expression of supreme boredom, was Elara.
She had changed her dress. She was now wearing a miniature version of a naval officer's coat, tailored to fit a six-year-old girl, complete with gold epaulets.
Krunk deflated instantly. He touched his forehead in a clumsy salute.
"Miss Elara. Just... teaching the new blood his place."
"His place is with the Captain," Elara said, descending the stairs one at a time, her patent leather shoes clicking on the wood.
"Papa wants to see his new... pet."
She stopped in front of Drake. Up close, she smelled of rosewater and expensive soap.
Drake smelled of tar and the cheap wool of his breeches.
She looked him up and down, her blue eyes dissecting him.
"You talk too much," she whispered, leaning in so only he could hear. "Smart boys don't last long here. Useful boys do."
Drake held her gaze. "Then it's a good thing I'm both."
A flicker of surprise crossed her face, quickly replaced by a smirk.
"We'll see. Come on. Don't make him wait. He's in a mood."
Drake followed her, leaving a confused Krunk to stare at the rigging. As they walked toward the stern, the ship's opulence became more suffocating.
They entered the Great Cabin. If the Black Gull's cabin was an office, this was a throne room. Maps of the known world covered the walls, pinned with daggers.
A massive table dominated the center, covered in charts, decanters of wine, and half-eaten exotic fruits.
Captain Valerius sat at the head of the table, feeding a piece of mango to a parrot that looked more expensive than Drake's entire family history.
Sitting around the table were three of his lieutenants... scarred, dangerous mer.
"Ah," Valerius purred, wiping his hands on a silk napkin. "The prodigy returns. Come closer, boy. Let the light hit you."
Drake stepped into the pool of sunlight streaming through the stern windows. He bowed, a crisp, efficient motion. "Lord Captain."
Valerius chuckled. "Polite. I like that. Your father is a rough dog, but he seems to have taught you to sit and stay."
One of the lieutenants, a man with a metal nose, snickered. "Probably taught him to beg, too."
Drake remained silent. In the Navy, you didn't interrupt the Admiral when he was stroking his own ego. You waited for the orders.
"We have a problem, Drake," Valerius said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
"We have taken you on as a... gesture of goodwill. But the Gilded Leviathan is a ship of war, not a nursery. Everyone must pull their weight."
He leaned back, steepling his fingers. The trap was coming. Drake could feel it. The air pressure in the room shifted.
"I cannot make you an officer," Valerius continued, feigning regret. "The men wouldn't stand for it. And you are too small for the rigging; the wind would blow you away like a leaf. So, I was at a loss."
Elara, standing by her father's chair, watched Drake intently.
She knew what was coming. She wanted to see if he would cry.
"But then," Valerius smiled, "my Quartermaster reminded me of the Bilge Rats."
The lieutenants laughed openly now. Even the parrot squawked.
"The lower crawlspaces," Valerius explained, his eyes glinting with malice.
"The very bottom of the hull. It's a maze of support beams, ballast stones, and... runoff. It's too tight for a man to fit. But a small boy? A small boy could crawl in there. Check for rot. Clear the slime from the weeping holes."
It was a death sentence. Or worse, a humiliation so deep it would break a noble spirit.
The bilges were dark, filled with toxic gases, disease, and the accumulated filth of four hundred men. It was where you sent people you wanted to forget.
"It is a vital job," Valerius mocked. "The foundation of the ship. Surely, a genius like you understands the importance of a clean bottom?"
Drake looked at the Pirate Lord. He looked at the sneering lieutenants.
He looked at Elara, who was biting her lip.
They expected him to beg. They expected him to cite his father's name, to demand better treatment. They wanted to see the fear of the dark in a child's eyes.
The bilge was where the ribs of the ship met the keel. It was the structural spine.
It was the only place on the ship where you could see the true condition of the vessel without paint or varnish hiding the flaws.
And more importantly, it was the one place where no one ever went. No guards. No officers. Absolute privacy. And access to the waterline.
Drake's mind, honed by decades of engineering, began to spin.
If I have access to the lower hull, I can map the stress points. I can create a secondary rudder mechanism. I can modify the intake valves to create a pressure system. I can build a water-ram!
Drake allowed a look of solemn gravity to cross his face. He looked like a soldier accepting a suicide mission.
"Your Lordship is wise," Drake said, his voice steady, cutting through the laughter.
The laughter died instantly. Valerius blinked.
"The stability of the ship depends on the ballast and the integrity of the keel," Drake continued, speaking with the authority of a forty-year-old veteran.
"If the weep holes clog, the water weight increases, slowing the vessel and increasing drag. It is a task of critical engineering importance."
He bowed again, deeper this time.
"I accept the post. I will ensure the Gilded Leviathan does not rot from the inside out."
Silence stretched in the cabin. The metal-nosed lieutenant looked confused. "Is... is he serious?"
Valerius frowned. This wasn't the reaction he wanted. He wanted tears. He wanted the boy to break so he could hold it over Ironbeard's head. Instead, the boy was acting like he'd just been handed a promotion.
"It smells like death down there, boy," Valerius said, his voice losing its silky edge. "Rats the size of cats. Darkness absolute."
"I have no fear of the dark," Drake lied. "Only of rust."
Elara let out a short, sharp laugh. She quickly covered her mouth, but her eyes were dancing.
"Well," Valerius scoffed, waving his hand dismissively. "If you're so eager to wallow in filth, be my guest. Get him out of my sight. He smells better than he will in an hour."
"Come," Elara commanded, stepping forward. "I'll show you to the hatch. I want to see you go in."
Drake nodded to the Captain and followed the girl out.
They walked in silence down the companionway, descending deck after deck. The air grew hotter, thicker, and more stagnant.
They reached the lowest deck, the orlop. It was dim here, lit only by a few sputtering tallow candles. A heavy iron grate in the floor marked the entrance to the hell below.
Elara stopped at the edge of the grate. She looked at Drake, her face serious.
"My father thinks you're a joke," she said softly. "He thinks you'll run back to your mother in a week."
Drake knelt by the grate. He peered into the black water sloshing below. He could hear the squeaking of rats.
"Your father looks at the sails, Lady Elara," Drake said, looking up at her.
"He forgets that trees die from the roots up."
He lifted the heavy iron grate with a grunt of effort.
"Why?" Elara asked, her mask of arrogance slipping just a fraction. "Why accept it?"
Drake swung his legs into the hole. He paused, his head level with her patent leather shoes.
He gave her a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"Because, Elara," he said, using her name without the title, "down here, nobody watches. And I have work to do."
He dropped into the darkness.
"You're weird," Elara whispered to the empty grate. She stood there for a long moment, listening to the sloshing water, before turning on her heel and marching back to the light.
Down in the dark, knee-deep in lukewarm slime, Drake waited until her footsteps faded.
He reached into his shirt and pulled out the small, stolen pouch of tools he had smuggled aboard.
A chisel. A hammer. A coil of copper wire.
He lit a small piece of chemically treated driftwood he kept in his pocket... a trick he'd invented back on the Black Gull. It burned with a low, blue smokeless flame.
The light revealed the underbelly of the beast.
"Rot," he whispered, running a hand over the main keel beam.
He patted the wood affectionately.
"Don't worry, old girl," the former Navy engineer murmured to the ship. "I'm not going to fix you. I'm going to own you."