"Now, tell me this, my backstabbing mates, would you trust the lot who swear a sinking ship oughta sink? Or the ones mad enough to believe she'll float regardless, figuring that belief alone will keep 'em alive."
I gestured to one of them with a wave of my sword towards the group of men tied in the little dinghy that was just bobbing. I made sure the rope cinched their wrists to their ankles, each of them soaked in the sea mist and their own fear. Good.
"You're mad, Morgan!" one of them yells.
"Mad?" I reply, tilting my head toward them, placing a hand on my tricorn hat. "No, no. Not mad, mate. I'm moisturously lucid." I point to my temple. "Just enough madness to keep dry during those cyclones. Which, in my opinion, is the proper ratio."
If it were up to me, I would've cut their throats. But we're near the port of Bruis. I ain't trying to do that much work.
Bruis is a place filled with good work. It has plenty of good whores and rum.
And those two things are sacred to me.
So I do the decent thing and leave the bastard floating, alive for now.
I lean down and slap the side of the dinghy twice, just enough to make the whole thing wobble. One of them yelps like a dying gull. Pathetic.
"You see, lads," I say, balancing on the rail like a tightrope walker with half a brain and a death wish, "This happens when your mutiny gets planned after too much rum. One day, you're crew. Next day, you're sea-scum with wrists tied tighter than a barmaid's corset. And I always say there's never too much rum."
"You're insane!" another shouts.
I pause, hand to my chest, jaw open in mock horror. "Oh, that hurts. Truly. Call me a bastard, call me a liar, but insane? That's low, mate. Intellectually dishonest."
I give them a wide grin. "But cheer up! This is your moment of growth, lads. Call it a spiritual flotation exercise. I've heard it clears the soul."
I clap my hands theatrically as I gag and sputter when the salty sea splashes onto them. I oddly find it invigorating.
"Now, anyone fancy a fair bargain? I offer your lives, and a single chance to wash your sins with honest toil. I swear it by the Seven Saints. Or not. You'll bob about until the gulls think you're a new island."
They curse. One spits into the water. They're brave and stupid. It's admirable. It reminds me why I let them serve on the Albatross.
"Farewell."
For a few moments, the world is quiet, just the groan of the hull, the whistle of the wind, and the sweet perfume of salt and rot that's been my mistress longer than any woman ever lived.
I tip my hat, give a little bow to the mutineers as the waves take them. "May the tide take you gently, lads."
But that depends on her mood.
Then, I spin on my heel and stroll back across the deck, boot squelching through the thin film of blood that's congealing.
Ah, yes. There it is.
The real work.
Bodies everywhere. The Albatross is bleeding from a dozen tiny wounds like she's mourning her idiots. The ones who didn't make it to the dinghy stare at the gray sky.
Lazy bastards could never follow orders.
"Morgan, you handsome devil," I mutter, stepping over a headless mate. "You've gone and cleaned house again. Bit of a habit forming, innit?"
I kick a sword from a one man's hand. "Good effort, though. Ten outta ten for enthusiasm."
The sails snap overhead, the ropes creak, and the wind smells like home. Just me and the sea again. How it should be.
Problem is, the sea's a terrible conversationalist.
I grab the wheel, one hand on the spoke, the other fishing for a flask from my coat. A swig of rum hits like divine inspiration.
"Right then, darling. Let's you and me find an open spot in Bruis's port."
The Albatross groans in reply. I pat the wheel softly. "Don't start, girl. They mutinied first. I'll clean up before we get there."