With the bench in front of her, Eleyna was, perhaps, not shielded from a musket blast, should one make directly for her. She was, however, shielded from the sight of all the other musket blasts that were about, each ball making its individual way into the limb or chest or stomach of some pirate trying his best to scale the merchantman’s hull. The pirates would rise up the ship’s sides, only to be brushed back again and again by raspy torrents of gunfire, like ants caught in a sudden rainstorm, climbing for higher ground.

Maurizio had gotten an early start. He was singing a little ditty, forcing its relentless melody into Eleyna’s ears. “Yo, ho, heave off me hearty / a drink is the thing for a boarding party / two’s a plenty and three’s a crowd / but four drinks a’ rum an I’ll do you right proud. Yo, ho…” the song repeated, ad Eleyna’s nauseum, which was not helped at all by the strong list of the longboat. It made the deck of the Ancilla seem like solid land in comparison, and solid land seem a far-off, wistful memory.

The first thing that struck her was the smell. The second was an empty grog bottle, tossed with frightening accuracy. Or, if it was not aimed at her but instead at the large furry rat-thing climbing the chair to Eleyna’s left, tossed with very poor accuracy.

First Mate Rot’s flask of rum was protected by cork board, so that he could grip it tightly the barbed metal curves of his false fingers. No one was getting at Rot’s rum. They would need a crowbar to pry it from his dead, metallic fingers.