Page 11 of The Sky Pirate's Stowaway
4
Maximus
My telescopic—a magnificent high-tech viewing device with triple-extending brass barrels and multiple lenses—whirred as I adjusted the fittings, scanning the cloud formations ahead for any sign of storm clusters. Or rather, that’s what Ishouldhave been doing at the top of the crow’s nest. Instead, my scope kept drifting down to the main deck, where our newest crew member scrubbed at the wooden planks.
Ghost worked with focused determination, his shoulders hunched as he attacked a particularly stubborn patch of tar with a wire brush. His copper hair caught the morning sunlight, creating a halo effect that made him almost appear to glow against the worn deck boards. Those freckled arms flexed with each vigorous motion, and occasional childish curses about phoenix tails and dragon balls floated up to my perch.
My face broke into a smile. Honestly though, it was no wonder half the crew were still giving him shit, even after a week of him being up with us.
A small pile of cleaning supplies surrounded him like a fortress—rags, buckets, and various brushes he’d found from thesupply cabinet. His fingers moved with the dedicated precision of a craftsman, though they were currently wrapped around a scrub brush.
My grip tightened on the telescopic as he sat back on his heels. The morning sun highlighted the freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks when he paused to wipe sweat from his brow with a grimy forearm.
The motion left a dark smudge across his pale skin, and he huffed in frustration before dunking his brush back in the bucket. The water sloshed over the rim, soaking the knees of the dark trousers Murray gave him. But rather than complain, he simply shifted his weight and attacked the next section of decking with renewed vigor.
It had been the same story no matter the task. Viper had him cleaning out the cannons yesterday, and he’d returned covered head to foot in soot—with a wide, white smile. Before that, it was assisting in the galley, where he’d managed to charm extra rations from the usually stern-faced Sage. Even the tedious task of checking every safety line and harness for wear hadn’t dampened his enthusiasm.
I forced my gaze back to the sky, adjusting the telescopic’s focus with more force than necessary. The clouds ahead remained stubbornly benign, offering no distraction from the constant movement below. Ghost was efficient, I’d give him that. It was... disarming, watching someone actually complete their tasks properly for once.
“Reaper? Hello?”
I almost jumped out of my skin.
I whirled around to find Ariella perched on the last ratline of the rigging, her blonde hair tied back in its usual practical ponytail. She raised an eyebrow at me.
“I’ve been calling your name for ages.”
“I was focused on the clouds.” My neck burned, and I fussed with pulling up the sleeves of my loose-fitting white shirt, revealing the red dragon tattoo that snaked around my biceps, its tail stretching all the way to my forearm. “What do you need?”
“Are you alright?”
“Perfectly fine.”
She pulled herself into the crow’s nest, boots landing with a soft thud. “Captain wants more speed. Says we’re moving slower than his grandmother’s funeral procession.”
I glanced at the limp signal flags twitching in the light breeze. “Can you manage it in this calm?”
“Watch.” Ariella closed her eyes, spreading her arms. The air stirred, and tiny motes of silvery light danced between her fingers. My skin prickled as the wind began to build, threading through the rigging with gathering strength. The mainsail creaked as it filled.
Sweat beaded on her forehead. Being a windweaver meant channeling the natural air currents, not creating them from nothing. Even for someone with her talent, forcing movement in dead air drained energy fast.
The ship’s speed increased from a crawl to a steady clip. Ariella lowered her arms, breathing hard. “That’s all I can manage for now. We’ll need to wait for natural winds to pick up if we want even more.”
She leaned against the railing to catch her breath, then nodded toward the deck below. “Your new project seems to be working out. Ghost? Sage says he actually knows how to clean a pot without destroying the seasoning.”
“He’s... adequate.” I adjusted the telescopic, refusing to look down again.
“Adequate enough to keep watching all morning instead of scanning for storms and sails?”
I shot her a glare. She just grinned.
Ariella might be barely nineteen to my thirty-two, but she was one of the few crew members I considered a friend. Which meant, regrettably, tolerating her cheek.
“How’s your family?” I asked her. “You picked up mail from your friend in Embergate, yes?”
Ariella’s smile faded. “Mother’s managing. The money helps, especially with winter coming.” She twisted her braid with her hand. “Though every letter asks when I’ll return from my ‘merchant voyage.’”
Ariella and I had one important thing in common—we were both aboardThe Black Wraithas a means to an end.
