Two years can bleach the green out of a boy, or so the saying goes. In Kael Grylls's case, not really. It can, however, turn a boat that looked ready to fall apart any second into a ship that at least does not look like it will sink in the next one. Medium-sized, three masts, and most importantly, still afloat. They had received it as a generous donation from an unobservant pirate crew.
At the moment the deck was chaos.
"Drink, drink, drink."
A squat, barrel-chested man with a Viking beard was upending an entire cask of rum. His name was Miller Pine, and his weapon was a spiked war hammer the size of a hog.
His opponent was Scopper Gaban. Between them a hill of empty casks already scraped the sky.
"Hic. Miller, you are fading. You look pale," Gaban said, setting his own barrel down without a change in expression.
"Nonsense. That is the flush of excitement," Miller Pine said through stiff lips. His swaying betrayed him.
Down by the mainmast, a man with an X-shaped scar on his brow and a perpetual cigar was polishing his pistols. This was Commander Myugulian, who had joined half a year ago after a skirmish on a Marine base island turned into a handshake. He snorted smoke at the drinkers.
"Two drunks."
"Commander Myugulian, is youthful energy really so offensive," came a mild voice.
A red-haired swordsman with his hair tied neatly back and a noble's jacket draped just right, Spencer held a glass of red wine and leaned against the gunwale as if the commotion belonged to another world. He had once guarded a merchantman. Then Gol D. Roger's personal charisma abducted both him and the vessel.
"Hmph," Myugulian said, eyes lifting instead to the lookout. He was still nursing the humiliation of being drunk under the table by Gaban two days ago.
At the masthead, a chubby uncle figure with a beloved long rifle was not keeping watch so much as hollering down. "Hey. Keep it down. You scared all the gulls out of my scope."
That was the ship's sniper, Pitam.
Kael sat on the great figurehead, feeling thoroughly drained. Two years in and he was used to scenes like this. He watched the misfit crowd below. The big guy Nozdon, pointy-headed and reminiscent of someone Kael could not place. Isaac, silent and wicked with a blade. Panklo, always elbow-deep in strange machines. Brumarine, who kept the logbook as if it were scripture.
The Roger Pirates had grown from a four-man slapdash troupe to a crew a dozen strong. A shape was taking shape.
In his previous life most of these names were footnotes, silhouettes at best. Now they were here, loud and warm-blooded, and very hard to forget.
Kael still remembered what it took to bring each aboard. To lure the aloof Commander Myugulian, Roger spent three days and nights playing Russian roulette. To persuade the aristocrat Spencer, Rayleigh talked till dawn, from politics and history to poetry and song. To win over the drink-or-die Miller Pine, Gaban emptied an entire town's bars with him.
Every new comrade came with a story that was ridiculous and somehow endearing. As for Kael, the man who vowed to be the King of Connections, his role turned out to be the glue.
He remembered to float a slice of lemon in Spencer's wine because that was the man's habit. He could chat with Panklo about gear trains even though he barely understood them. He was also the only one who could make Myugulian hear him out before the man started swearing.
His so-called face, his capital, could not yet command a Marine fleet. On this ship though, it was already accepted currency.
"Daydreaming again, Kael," Rayleigh asked, settling beside him and passing over a cup of hot tea.
"No." Kael took a sip. "Just thinking about what kind of monsters we have gathered."
"Kuahahaha. Only the best monsters," Roger's voice whooped from aft. He blew in like a gust, planted one boot on the rail at the bow and flung his arms wide as if to hug the sea.
"Boys. That island ahead looks fun. Let us throw a banquet."
"Ohhhhh."
So the tradition of spontaneous feasts had survived nicely.
Rumbles of joy crashed across the deck. Miller and Gaban dropped their barrels. Commander Myugulian holstered his pistols. Pitam hopped down from the top and nearly broke a plank.
Every face wore the same thing, a simple, honest excitement.
"Captain, the chart marks it as an unlisted Summer Island. There may be unknown hazards," Spencer said, dutiful as ever.
"Even better," Roger said, flashing all his teeth.
"Yeah. Adventure, adventure," Nozdon boomed, one arm thicker than Kael's torso.
Looking at the carnival, Kael rubbed his brow, and a slow warmth moved through his chest.
He had once thought the strength of the Roger Pirates began and ended with Roger, Silvers Rayleigh, and Scopper Gaban. Now he understood. Everyone mattered. These clashing, mismatched, loud souls together made the crew that would one day rattle the world.
No stiff hierarchy. No scheming. A captain who could change course on a whim because something sounded interesting. A crew who would bet everything on a pointless contest. They would roar for a comrade's win and press a cup into a comrade's hand when he fell short.
Free, easy, brothers in all but blood.
Kael looked back. Roger was waving at him like a windmill. Sunlight poured over him. That infectious swagger and freedom were the same as the night two years ago.
Kael muttered, "Coming, coming, stop rushing," but his steps were light.
Yes, he was tired. Yes, not a single one of these people was reliable. But.
It felt damn good.
"Hey. Quiet down, you lot," Kael barked.
"Yes, Little Kael."
"Come on. I was the third aboard. Call me senior, senpai."
"Hai, Kael-senpai."
"Baka yarou."
"Kuahahahahaha."