He took a step forward, and from his posture, Hadrian knew what was coming even if Wesley was oblivious. The big midshipman struck Wesley hard across the face. The boy fell over his sea chest onto his back. He rolled to his side, his face red with fury, but never got farther than his knees before Beryl struck him again, this time hard enough to spray blood from his nose. Wesley collapsed to the floor again with a wail of pain and lay crumbled in a ball, holding his face. The other midshipmen cheered.

Beryl sifted through the contents of Wesley’s chest. “All that for nothing? I thought you were a lord’s son. This is pathetic.” He pulled a white linen shirt out and looked it over. “Well, this isn’t too bad, and I could use a new shirt.” He slammed the chest and returned to his breakfast.

Disgusted, Hadrian started to move to help Wesley but stopped when he saw Poe earnestly shaking his head. The young seaman took hold of Hadrian’s arm and nearly dragged him back up to the main deck, where the sun had risen sufficiently enough to cause them to squint.

“Don’t involve yourself in the affairs of officers,” Poe told him earnestly. “They’re just like nobles. Strike one and you’ll hang for it. Trust me, I know what I’m talking about. My older brother Ned is the coxswain on the Immortal. The horror stories he’s told me can turn one’s stomach. Blimey, you act like you’ve never been on a ship before.”

Hadrian did not say anything as he followed Poe back toward the galley.

“You haven’t, have you?” Poe asked suddenly.

“So, who is this big fella? Is he Beryl?” Hadrian asked, changing the subject.

Poe scowled, then sighed. “Yep, he’s the senior midshipman.”

“So Beryl’s a noble?”

“Don’t know if he is or he ain’t. Most are third or fourth sons, the ones not suited for the tournaments or monastic life who volunteer to serve, hoping they can one day manage a captain’s rank, rule their own ship, and make some money. Most midshipmen only serve about five years before making lieutenant, but Beryl, he’s been a midshipman for something like ten years now, I reckon. I guess it makes a man sorta cranky, being left behind like that. Even if he isn’t a true blue-blooded noble, he’s still an officer, and on this ship, that means the same thing.”

“Royce?” Hadrian whispered.

Royce lay in his hammock near the bow of the ship, his head still covered with the white kerchief—the insignia of the maintop crew. He was shivering and wet, lying in soaked clothes.

“Royce,” he repeated. This time, he shook his partner’s shoulder.

“Do that again and I’ll cut your hand off,” he growled, his voice garbled and sickly.