#deskgirl

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Interview with a Pirate

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It was a funny thing, Ivan reflected as he struck a man upside the head with a round shot and sent his teeth flying—the career of piracy, that is. It wasn’t something most people set out to do. There wasn’t a proper brick-and-mortar school for it, and there weren’t any formal applications or interviews, save for the odd fellow in the back of a bar looking for any warm body willing to put their mark on a piece of paper. 

Piracy was something you fell into, more or less.

Ivan hadn’t set out to be a pirate. His dad had passed when Ivan was young so he had no connections or learning, and he didn’t have a touch delicate enough to help his mum craft the combs she sold. That left him to pick up any odd, miserable job he could find. When your choices were spinning cat-gut, sifting through trash heaps, or working sails on a ship of ill repute, it wasn’t much of a choice. Sure, sailing with pirates meant you had to kill a guy every now and then, but Ivan was pretty good at that. 

Ivan hit the other fellow a couple more times just to make sure he wouldn’t get back up, then took stock of his situation. He was the only person left on the gun deck to defend the stairs down to the powder magazine. Everyone else had gone up top to fight. Ivan supposed he could load up a cannon himself and try putting a hole through the enemy ship, but it was much harder without someone else to help. Plus, he didn’t feel particularly motivated to put in the extra effort. If he were being honest with himself, he’d been dissatisfied with the workplace environment for a while now. If he didn’t die today, he might go about finding employment elsewhere.

Captain Afzal wasn’t the worst boss, but he was careless, presumptuous, and thought too much of himself all around. Any captain was bound to have their faults. Usually, though, they had the brains or skills to make up for it. Afzal had neither. He expected other people to clean up his messes, didn’t give half a thought to the daily running of his ship, never took the advice of his sailing master, and, most notably and recently, thought it was a good idea to open fire on a ship with no flag flying. 

Ivan could’ve told Afzal that proper European ships loved two things above all else: a good keg of wine and showing off their country’s colors. Which meant the unmarked ship could only be bootleggers or other pirates.

Turns out they’d been pirates.

Ivan stooped to check the dead man for anything useful. He had a couple of boarding axes on him that he’d kept in good condition. Ivan could appreciate a well-maintained blade. 

“So that’s what was taking Matthews so long,” a thin voice said. 

Ivan looked up from where he was crouched. 

On the stairs, one arm braced casually against the frame, was a man all in black, his hair slicked back and blood flecking his face, a saber held loosely in his other hand. He wasn’t looking at Ivan but rather at the body. Ivan expected anger, but the man only seemed disappointed. 

The man in black sighed and gave Ivan a thoughtful look before he stepped down onto the deck. Ivan surged to his feet, hatchets in hand. He was immediately struck by how small the other man was. If not for the sword in his hand, Ivan might’ve discounted him as a threat entirely. He wasn’t sure the man even had the range to stab him. 

“You’re in my way,” the man in black said casually. He swept his blade in a quick, fluid circle. Flashy. Overconfident. Dismissive. And in a few seconds? A dead man.

Then his stance shifted, and alarm bells sounded in Ivan's head. He knew what an untrained fighter looked like. This man knew how to hold a sword. He had the form of a man who'd had it drilled into him, but rather than the stiff, uniform posture of a naval officer, his stance was loose and comfortable. Familiar.

Ivan brought his axes up just in time. Blades clashed, then the saber swung away, twisted, and came in again for another strike. Ivan deflected with intent this time, pushing the saber away and breaking his opponent’s stance. 

Going on the attack, Ivan menaced the smaller man, trying to bait him into lifting his sword to defend. He thought he had it for a moment, but just as he dove in, the other man sidestepped and brought his sword down overhand like an executioner.

Ivan leapt clear in the nick of time. The other man followed, taking the ground he’d surrendered. 

The man in black lunged for Ivan’s face—a risky move, but between a seasoned fighter and a rookie, it was guaranteed to end a fight fast. It wasn’t meant as a killing blow, but it might blind an opponent on a lucky hit, and an amateur was sure to cower or flail wildly and drop their defense. Death tended to follow in short order.

Ivan wasn’t going to fall for something like that. He knocked the sword off-course, then slipped his axe blade around and hooked it. With his opponent wide open, Ivan swung with his other axe, aiming for the man’s exposed middle, but he managed to pull free.

The man relented and gave up ground as he readjusted his grip. He hummed thoughtfully. “Neat little trick there. Where’d you learn that?”

“Learned it from none of your business.”

“Fair enough.” 

Ivan leapt forward, looking to cleave open his opponent’s arm or the muscle of his chest near the shoulder. The other man barely repelled his attack. Ivan found the pinch of his brows and the tight press of his lips immensely satisfying. 

Ivan kept pushing. He couldn’t risk being put on the defensive. He followed as the man in black retreated. When the other man attempted to circle to Ivan’s flank, he lunged to the side to cut him off. He tried again, and Ivan responded in kind. The rarely-indulged, fanciful part of his mind likened it to a dance. 

Despite holding his own well, Ivan knew he was getting winded faster than his opponent. He had to end this.

Ivan feinted. The man in black moved to block as expected. But as Ivan swung for the opening he’d made, he realized the block had been a feint as well. Ivan tried to recover, but he’d overextended and he knew it. 

The man in black moved like a viper. He caught one of Ivan’s axes with his saber blade, snuck out his free hand to push the other aside before catching hold of his shirt, then twisted his sword and slid it along the axe, the blades singing against each other as the sword snaked towards Ivan’s neck. 

Ivan forced their locked blades up at the last second. Steel bit into his cheek. Then he wrenched himself free and stumbled back. 

Ivan struggled to catch his breath as he put distance between himself and his opponent. Warm, tacky blood trickled down the side of his face into his beard. The cut burned like fire. That’d been too close.

The other man didn’t follow, instead allowing the short reprieve. He ran a hand through his hair, which had begun to fall into his eyes. For the first time, Ivan noticed the stark black ink of new tattoos on his neck and upper cheekbone. “You’re good. How long’ve you been doing this?” he asked.

“Long enough,” Ivan said.

“This your first ship?”

Ivan wasn’t sure why they were chatting all of a sudden, but he’d take the breather while he could. “No. It’s my third.”

“Axes your specialty?”

“Wouldn’t say it’s a specialty. Just what I had on hand.” Ivan glanced pointedly at the corpse of the late Matthews. 

“Good to be versatile in our line of work. Tell me, do you like working for your captain?”

“I like getting paid.”

“That's all? That’s what it takes to earn your loyalty?”

“Everyone likes getting paid.”

“But you don’t like your captain.”

“I don’t need to like my captain.”

The other man’s eyes narrowed. “Do you respect him, though?”

“Don’t need to respect him.”

“Don’t you?”

Ivan chose not to respond, instead lifting his axes. 

“You’re ready then?” the man asked.

Ivan gave a humorless smile. “Actually, I left my good axe stowed with my hammock, if you’ll let me—”

The man in black crossed the deck in three quick strides and attacked. 

Immediately, Ivan knew something was wrong, the same way he knew when the dice in his hand felt loaded or a game of shells was rigged. The other man’s blade lashed out left and right, striking off of Ivan’s axes in a discordant, staccato rhythm, refusing to let up even for a moment. It was all Ivan could do to avoid being struck. His feints and blocks were deftly answered, every gap in his defense menaced so that he could only retreat. Whenever he managed a decent swing, his axes caught on nothing but loose fabric or were easily batted aside. 

Ivan barely caught himself when he felt the back of his boot meet open air. He’d been pushed all the way to the lower stairs. 

Desperate to regain ground, Ivan surged forward, hoping to startle his opponent back. 

Instead of defending or retreating, the other man stepped into Ivan’s space. It was a nonsensical move that gave him no room to maneuver while exposing his sides to Ivan’s axes. At the last moment, though, he tipped his sword up and lashed out with the hilt instead. 

Ivan registered the axes leaving his suddenly throbbing hands a split second before the sword hilt connected with his chin.

Ivan stumbled back with a shout. Too late, he remembered the stairs as the floor vanished from beneath his feet. He flailed, trying to catch hold of anything to stop himself from tumbling backwards and breaking his neck. 

A hand caught his wrist. Ivan grabbed hold, letting himself be pulled back to safety. He gasped for breath even as he felt the weight of a blade come to rest on his collarbone. 

“I’d say we’re done here, don’t you?” the man in black asked. 

Ivan fought to school his features even as his heart tried to pound its way out of his ribs. So this was how he was going to die. He supposed he’d lived his life as best he could, all things considered. At least he hadn’t gone out undignified, ass over kettle down the stairs.

The blade tapped his chest before withdrawing. “Come on, then.” The man in black gestured with his sword for Ivan to move.

“What?”

The man pointed up towards the deck. Ivan could hear shouting and pistols firing, but now that he listened, it sounded more like… cheering?

“That’ll be your captain surrendering,” the man in black explained. “Let’s head on up.”

“Could be your captain surrendered,” Ivan countered.

The man laughed. It was a thin, raspy sound like the way he spoke, the noise coming short and sharp on the inhale. He shook his head, flashing Ivan a smile that was all teeth. “Not likely.” He turned his back to Ivan and headed for the upper stairs without even a glance back, sheathing his sword as he went.

Stunned by the turn of events, Ivan could only follow. 

Halfway up the stairs, the man paused and nonchalantly asked, “How would you like a job?”

Ivan wasn’t sure he’d heard right. “You serious?” 

The man looked over his shoulder. Ivan was close enough to see the afternoon stubble on his jaw and the hazel of his eyes. His face was schooled into a stern expression, but there was a hint of mischief in the corner of his mouth. “Why wouldn’t I be? You’re wasted here. And I can guarantee you we pay better than your boss. You said you like to be paid, right?”

“I did,” Ivan relented. 

The man gestured with a nod of his head for them to keep moving.

Out on deck, Ivan saw everyone who was still alive being rounded up. A couple of his fellow crewmates looked at him curiously, but they were mainly concerned with the enemy pirates forcing them to the front of the ship. 

It didn’t escape Ivan’s notice that the whole of the enemy crew were dressed in varying amounts of leather. He supposed there was something to be said for having a consistent aesthetic. 

“Iz, there you are, mate!” someone crowed from the quarterdeck. Ivan turned to watch another man bound down the stairs and jump the last few steps, hair flying behind him like a black flag. He sported an ink-dark beard just starting to get some proper length to it and a smattering of tattoos that peeked out from under a leather jacket missing its right sleeve. 

The man held his arms out triumphantly. “The plan worked!”

“I knew it would,” the man who was apparently named Iz responded.

“Oh yeah? Cuz you’re the one who insisted on securing the magazine, in case ‘everything goes to shit and we have to blow them up’.” The taller man emphasized his words with his hands.

The other man sniffed. “It’s good to have a backup plan. Speaking of which, I want you to meet…” He turned to Ivan.

“Ivan,” he answered. He made an aborted gesture as if to shake hands before thinking better of it, but the taller man jumped at the opportunity, reaching over to take Ivan’s hand in his.

“Nice to meet ya, mate,” he said brightly. 

“He’s a new hire I’m considering,” the man named Iz explained. He caught Ivan’s eye meaningfully. “Ivan, meet Blackbeard.”

Ivan felt a thrill up his spine. He knew that name. Word had been going round about him in the ports. Smoke and moonless nights, ghost ships and glowing eyes, cannons loaded with chain shot and iron bolts and broken glass—Blackbeard was a legend in the making.

Blackbeard turned his attention back to Ivan, and it was like a different person was looking at him all of a sudden. Gone was the bright, boyish grin. Ivan tried not to fidget as dark, thoughtful eyes took him in anew, studying his face. Ivan wasn’t sure he’d ever met anyone with such intense eyes before. He was acutely aware of the blood drying uncomfortably along his jaw and the tang of it fresh in his mouth from being struck in the face. He crossed his arms and tilted his head back, trying to act unaffected.

The man’s face split into a grin, the tension dissipating in an instant. “I like him.”

“I thought you would.”

“New hire, you said?” He looked at his crewmate. “You interviewed him? He did alright?”

“He’s alive, isn’t he?”

“Interviewed?” Ivan interrupted.

“Yeah, he asked you some questions, tried to stab you up, you survived. Means you passed the interview. Good job, mate!” Then Blackbeard’s brow furrowed as he turned back to his companion. “Thought you said we were good on crew, though? Don’t need a new guy. Not that I don’t like your whole thing,” he said, gesturing at Ivan with a charming smile.

“Matthews is dead,” the other man, Iz, stated bluntly.

“Yeah? How’d that happen? I saw him just a bit ago.”

Iz nodded towards Ivan.

“Ah.” Blackbeard settled back on his heels, hands on his hips. “Well, no big loss there. You were just telling me the other day that he was getting uppity.”

“I said he was planning a mutiny.”

“Same diff. So, Ivan! You in? We’ve got competitive pay, a decent surgeon, and the work’s steady.”

Ivan licked his lips thoughtfully. Pushing too much could cost him the job, but his mates had been telling him that he ought to advocate for himself more. “Religious days?”

Iz responded dutifully, “Work shifts are scheduled around prayer and days of rest, if you partake. Just don’t give me any shit about Calypso.”

Blackbeard laughed, his voice a rich, rolling chuckle. “Iz here’s been Calypso’d a couple times. You know what they say about tricking someone twice.” He squeezed his crewmate’s shoulder good-naturedly. “So, is that a yes then?”

“Suppose so, considering the alternative.” Ivan glanced over his shoulder at his old crew. 

“Hm? Oh, those guys. Don’t worry about them, they’re fine. I just need the captain to tell me where he stashed all the good stuff.”

“I know where,” Ivan offered.

“Yeah?” Blackbeard lit up. He slapped Ivan on the shoulders. “Look at that, you’re already earning your keep. Captain’s cabin, right? I’ll go on ahead.”

Blackbeard swept past with an energy that left Ivan on his back foot. Ivan let out a sigh as his shoulders slumped. Everything was changing so quickly. He needed to get his things. Did he even really have things? He could barely think.

“Go on, then. Don’t keep him waiting.”

“Oh!” Ivan had forgotten he wasn’t alone. “Uh, Iz, was it?”

The man’s lip curled in distaste. “That’s Mr. Hands or First Mate Hands to you.”

For the second time in one day, Ivan felt a shock run through his body. He knew that name, too. Everyone in the Republic of Pirates knew Izzy Hands. Half of them owed him a favor, while the other half had good reason to stay out of his way. Of course he was Blackbeard’s first mate. Why wouldn’t a man who once took a prize galleon without firing a single shot have one of the most infamous swordsmen in the Caribbean serving under him? 

Mr. Hands gave him a crooked smile. “Recognize that name, do you? Don’t you worry. You’re one of my lads now. You do your job and I’ll look after you.” He laid a hand on Ivan’s upper arm, gently turning him towards the door to the captain’s cabin. “Now off with you. You don’t want to keep Blackbeard waiting.”

“Short temper?”

“Short attention span. The man’s a genius, but his mind’s constantly in motion. Best to not let him sit idle too long.” Mr. Hands gave a small shake of his head. “You’ll get used to it.”

“Right.” Ivan headed for the door. 

“And Ivan?”

“Yeah?”