Six years had ground by since the sea spat Noah back out as Drake, the son of a pirate captain.
And six years was plenty of time to realize that the Golden Age of Piracy was less about romantic swashbuckling and more about managing slow, inevitable decay.
The Black Gull was a sloop of war that had seen too much war and not enough sloop.
Her keel was warped, her rigging was a tangle of despair, and her crew was a collection of drunks.
Drake, now a scrawny boy of six with eyes that held the weary cynicism of a forty-five-year-old chief engineer, sat cross-legged on the forecastle.
He was whittling a new pin for the capstan block because the current one was fractured, and nobody else had noticed.
In this life, Drake had no CAD software, no hydraulic presses, and no safety regulations.
What he did have was the run of the ship. His father, Captain "Ironbeard" Teach, was usually too deep in a bottle of Jamaican rum to notice his son.
His mother, Martha, the ship's Quartermaster and true brain, was too busy balancing the books.
So, Drake had become the ship's ghost. A six-year-old grease monkey.
He knew every groan the Black Gull made. He knew the starboard bilge pump needed three kicks before it would draw water.
He knew the mainmast had a hairline fracture near the crosstrees that he'd been secretly bracing with iron bands he'd stolen from the cargo hold.
To the crew, he was just a weird kid who didn't talk much, didn't cry when he got hit, and stared at the sails like he was reading them.
"You're starin' again, Runt," a voice sneered from behind him.
Drake carefully blew the sawdust off the hardwood pin in his hand, checking the grain. He knew the voice. Scupper.
Scupper hated Drake. It was a simple, visceral hatred born of insecurity. Scupper was supposed to be the one learning the ropes, eventually rising to be a deckhand.
But this six-year-old Runt could splice a rope faster than the Bosun and could navigate by the stars better than the helmsman.
"I said," Scupper growled, kicking Drake's shin with a bare, callous-hardened foot, "you're starin'. Gives the lads the creeps. Stop it."
Drake sighed, a sound far too heavy for his small chest. He looked up. In his past life, he'd managed teams of two hundred stressed-out technicians.
He'd dealt with admirals screaming about budget cuts while a reactor was red-lining. A twelve-year-old with a hygiene problem was not a threat.
"The wind is shifting to the north-northeast, Scupper," Drake said, his voice calm, piping but precise.
"If we don't trim the jib, we're going to lose half a knot. And since we're chasing a merchantman, half a knot is the difference between prize money and eating hardtack for another week."
Scupper blinked. The technical talk always confused him, which only made him angrier. He didn't care about knots or wind.
He cared that the Quartermaster had praised Drake yesterday for fixing the water barrel hoops.
"Shut yer trap," Scupper spat, stepping closer. He loomed over Drake, casting a shadow across the sunny deck.
"You think you're better than us 'cause you can read them fancy maps? You're just a mascot. A bad luck charm."
Drake stood up. He was half Scupper's height, but he stood with his weight balanced, knees bent—the stance of a man who had spent decades on shifting steel decks.
"I'm busy, Scupper. Go scrub something."
The dismissal was casual, almost bored. It was the way an adult dismisses a child. And that broke Scupper.
"I'll scrub your face on the deck, you little leech!" Scupper lunged, grabbing for Drake's collar.
In a normal world, a twelve-year-old destroys a six-year-old. But Drake calculated the vector of the lunge before Scupper had even finished shouting.
He didn't fight back; he didn't have the muscle mass. He just… wasn't there.
Drake stepped sideways, hooking his foot behind Scupper's ankle while simultaneously pulling on a loose halyard he'd been mending.
Scupper's momentum carried him forward, his foot snagged, and he face-planted into a coil of wet, heavy hemp rope with a meaty thwack.
"You tripped me!" Scupper howled, scrambling up, his nose bleeding. "I'll kill you!"
He balled his fists, his face purple with rage. He was going to hurt the boy. Really hurt him this time.
"Belay that!"
The roar came from the quarterde.
Scupper froze. Drake didn't even turn around; he just went back to sanding his wooden pin.
Stumping down the stairs came Silas, the Boatswain. He was a man shaped like a rum barrel, with arms as thick as Drake's torso.
He looked at Scupper, then at the bleeding nose, then at Drake, who was placidly working.
"Scupper!" Silas barked. "Stop tryin' to murder the Captain's whelp and get up the ratlines. The lookout says he sees a sail. If you ain't up there in ten seconds, I'll use you as a fender!"
Scupper glared at Drake, wiping blood onto his sleeve. "This ain't over, Runt. You wait till we're in port."
"Aye, aye," Drake muttered, not looking up.
As Scupper scrambled up the rigging, cursing under his breath, Silas grunted and looked down at Drake.
The big man's eyes narrowed. He'd seen the trip. He'd seen the efficiency of it.
"You got the devil in you, boy," Silas mumbled, half in superstition, half in respect. "Or the sea. Ain't natural for a child to be so… steady."
"The capstan pawl was slipping. This should hold it for another thousand leagues."
Silas took the pin, examining the craftsmanship. It was perfect. Better than the carpenter could do sober. He shook his head, tucked the pin into his sash, and sighed.
"Quartermaster wants ye," Silas said, jerking a thumb toward the stern. "In the Great Cabin. Put a shirt on. And try not to look so… smart. It unsettles the guests."
Drake raised an eyebrow. Guests?
He dusted the sawdust from his knees, grabbed a ragged linen shirt from a pile of laundry, and walked aft.
As he walked, his mind raced. If it was a creditor, they were in trouble; the hold was mostly empty. If it was a victim, why was he needed?
He pushed open the heavy oak door to the Great Cabin.
His father, Ironbeard, was squeezed into his chair behind the massive desk, looking uncomfortable in a coat that was actually buttoned. His beard was combed, which was a terrifying sign in itself.
Martha, his mother, stood beside him, her hand resting on the hilt of her cutlass, her eyes sharp as flint.
But they weren't alone.
Sitting opposite them, lounging in a chair with the grace of a jungle cat, was a man Drake recognized from the stories the crew whispered.
Captain Valerius "The Silk" Thorne. A Pirate Lord. He wore a coat of purple velvet, a color so expensive it was practically a declaration of war on the concept of poverty.
And standing next to Valerius was a girl.
She looked to be about five or six, Drake's age.
She was dressed like a porcelain doll... a frilly dress of blue silk, white stockings, and patent leather shoes that looked like they had never touched a dirty deck.
She had golden ringlets of hair and big, innocent blue eyes.
Drake stopped in the doorway, bowing slightly. "You sent for me, Captain? Mother?"
Valerius turned, his eyes scanning Drake like he was inspecting a horse at an auction. He took a drag from a long, thin pipe and exhaled a cloud of sweet-smelling smoke.
"So," Valerius purred, his voice smooth as oil. "This is the prodigy? The one Martha claims can count past ten without using his fingers?"
Ironbeard grunted, clearly hating that he had to be polite.
"Aye. The boy's got a head for numbers. Don't know where he got it. Not from me."
"He reads," Martha added, her voice proud but guarded. "Charts, ledgers, logistics. He fixed our water rationing system last month. Saved us three casks."
Valerius laughed, a soft, mocking sound. "A logistician pirate. How quaint. Most of us just steal what we need."
He leaned forward, looking at Drake. The Pirate Lord's eyes were cold, calculating. "My associate here, your father, wishes to join my Fleet Alliance. He wants protection. He wants access to my drydocks in the Tortuga chain."
Drake's heart skipped a beat. Drydocks. proper facilities. Tools. Materials. If they got access to that, he could actually build. He could turn the Black Gull into a predator instead of a scavenger.
"However," Valerius continued, "I don't take on charity cases. I need assurance that this alliance is... mutually beneficial. I need to know the Black Gull has a future, not just a drunk captain and a sharp quartermaster."
Valerius gestured to the little girl beside him.
"This is my daughter, Elara. She will inherit my empire one day. But an empire needs managers. It needs minds."
The girl, Elara, stepped forward. She looked at Drake. Up close, the "porcelain doll" image shattered.
"He looks dirty, Papa," she said. Her voice was bell-like, but the tone was pure ice.
"He lives on a ship, darling," Valerius soothed. Then he looked back at Drake's parents.
"The proposal is this: The boy comes to my flagship, the Gilded Leviathan, for the summer season. If he is as clever as you say then I will grant you dock rights. If he proves to be... disappointing... well, the sharks are always hungry."
Ironbeard looked ready to argue, but Martha put a hand on his shoulder.
Drake looked at the Pirate Lord, then at the girl.
He saw the trap. He was being taken as a hostage, wrapped up as an "apprenticeship." If his father stepped out of line, Drake would go overboard.
But he also saw the opportunity. The Gilded Leviathan. A ship with resources. A library, probably. Maps of the entire known world.
And the girl? She was looking at him like he was a bug she might crush.
"I would be honored, Lord Valerius," Drake said, his voice steady. "And I'm sure Lady Elara and I will have much to discuss."
Elara's eyes narrowed slightly. She saw it. She saw the intelligence behind the grime.
Valerius clapped his hands. "Excellent! A playdate for the damned. We sail with the tide."
Drake looked at his mother. "I'll need my tools," he said simply.
"Just your tools?" Valerius asked, amused. "No toys?"
"My tools are my toys," Drake replied.