Faris was fourteen when she was on shore leave to Crescent Island and fell hard into infatuation with a pretty Jacolean dancer. Shula was everything she wasn't: short and voluptuous, raven-haired and dark-eyed, with beautiful golden-brown skin. Her cheeks dimpled when she grinned at Faris from up on the dance stage. The Istorian boy she grew up with on the ship teased her mercilessly for staring. Knowing that she had to show him up just once, she flipped him a rude gesture and approached the dancer with a bravado that hid her nerves and the utter brass to ask to be her dancing partner just once.

Shula found her very charming and invited Faris to her room. The whirlwind affair that followed was her first. It lasted up until she had to ship out.

Faris is seventeen and the youngest pirate captain in history when she runs into Shula again. Her dark brown eyes don't have that sparkle anymore and she lost enough weight that Faris almost didn't recognize her. Had Shula not tugged on her greatcoat while Faris was on her way to solicit a cuddly bed-warmer for the night, she might have passed her by.

Upon seeing the bruising around her first love's upper arm, Faris promptly scuppers her personal plans.

"I knew you'd make captain sooner than later," Shula says once they're in the privacy of Faris' room at the inn. The fondness on her face makes her look less careworn. She settles carefully on the bed, as if grateful for the reprieve. "Glad it was sooner."

As much as she would like to catch up, Faris skips right past the pleasantries. "Who did that to you?"

Shula blinks owlishly at her, momentarily thrown, and looks down at her hands. Once soft and delicate, now they're callused by hard work. Her nails are shorter than Faris recalls, and two of them broken. The hands ball into fists in her lap, as if she's embarrassed for some reason. "Oh, well, you know me. I'm not very bright."

Faris has to resist the urge to snort at that. Maybe Shula has that thing where letters rearrange themselves and words go backwards when she tries to read, but her letter-reading ability has nothing on her ability to read people, or her ability to intuit where to place her feet and keep her balance in a complicated dance. "It's not an answer, love."

"It's my boss," Shula admits, with a bit of a wry smile. She has always known Faris well enough to predict what she's going to do; Faris suspects that Shula hopes to prevent her running off for vengeance before she's out the door. "He just gets…frustrated with my pace sometimes. It's hard to keep up with demand and still work safely. It's not his fault. And, really, he does this to everyone."

That's the other thing with Shula: she's far too forgiving. But then, she probably wouldn't have given a young pirate a chance if she wasn't. "Fuck that. Where do you work?"

"Sugar mill. Faris, honestly," she says with a wee bit of exasperation, "I just want passage off Crescent."

Granted, Faris doesn't know much about sugarcane cultivation and processing. She just knows a few men who went on account because they lost fingers at mills and could no longer find work. Shula could lose more than just the tips of her nails if her boss insists on pushing her. A lot of people could.

But for now, Faris sets that thread of thought aside.

"You'll get your passage. We set out in two days." Faris pauses to glance over Shula's form. She's too generous in the breast and hips to crossdress well without significant pain from the bindings and padding she'd have to wear, and too feminine besides, so that option is right out. Nor is there time to train her in how to walk like a man, or pitch her voice lower. "I'll need to smuggle you into my cabin before dawn, and you can't be seen out of it. Will that be a problem?"

Shula's lips quirk in an attempt to suppress a smile. "Still don't allow girls on board, huh?"

"For your own safety." Faris is aware of the irony of forbidding women as regular crewmembers, given the propensity of buggerers and catamites to flock to pirate ships, but the codes of conduct are voted upon by the majority and she's always in the minority on that point. Someday they will all figure her out, and she hopes it's far enough in the future that she won't have much to regret.

"Of course." The smile of acquiescence breaks out on Shula's face and the matter is dropped. Aside from one last admonition not to do anything rash, she settles comfortably into Faris' room like she was always meant to be there.

The reunion that night went about as well as could be expected. The dawn reminds Faris that there was a reason why she didn't seriously consider going back to Shula when she could—she knows she can be difficult and run roughshod over people when given the chance, and Shula's so sweet and cloying that Faris frequently finds herself frustrated with her too-agreeable nature. If Faris is going to seriously settle down with anyone, she'd rather be with someone more willing to stand up to her.

She's seventeen; it doesn't really matter. There's time aplenty to think about that kind of thing when she's older.

Faris excuses herself from Shula with the pretext that she has business to attend to. The knowing look in Shula's eyes suggests she's aware of what Faris has planned, but she won't press the issue. To her quartermaster she leaves a list of things to add to their supplies when he visits the sutler, and to the pilot and bos'n she leaves reminders that they still need to replace their doctor. And, if they have to, she recommends pressganging promising souls.

Not that Faris particularly needs to pressgang people. Blackmail works just as well. There's always someone with debts they need settled. There's always someone who has fallen on hard times. So on. The bos'n is particularly good at ferreting out the desperate. The terms of her ship's articles—equal shares for all, with the captain, quartermaster, and individual acts of bravery earning only two shares and the other officers earning a share and a half—are usually enticement enough for that lot.

With her usual port business items delegated, Faris is free to seek out support for her plans. She's discreet about it, of course. Asks the beggars about their various amputations while dropping off some gil. Makes smalltalk with the urchins. Listens in on the grumblings in the pubs. The picture painted by loose lips is one of a too-demanding mill owner who sacrifices employee safety to meet increasing demands for Crescent Island's famous rum and molasses. The man needs to be knocked down a bit and she's more than happy to do it.

Finding the man's home and learning his patterns doesn't take much time. Bless the urchins and their sense of fair play; they're quick to tell her what she needs to know when plied with just enough gil and sweets. If she sends them off with more gil than they usually get from begging, well, maybe it'll do them some good.

Syldra, my love, Faris calls out once she finds a quiet alley to hide out in and shift her focus further away. Insofar as one can call out, mentally. She's never been able to figure out how their connection works, but she's grateful it's there.

Nearly as soon as she cast out the thought, she tastes blood and salt in her mouth and feels water rushing around her. It's a reciprocal bond—her great sea dragon can feel what it's like to walk on land through her when he wishes to open himself to the experience. You want to cause trouble?

Bloody mind reader. She lets the fond, teasing tone permeate through their bond. It's not trouble, it's justice.

Sure it is. His head breaches through the water, allowing her to see Crescent Island in the distance through his eyes. Syldra swallows down his food, a sahagin, and she can almost feel its spines scrape as it slides down her/his throat.

As her soul's brother swims back to the general vicinity of the island, Faris shares with him her thoughts and plans. Syldra agrees to play along, but he always does. They share the same spirit, after all.

Syldra joins her, at least mentally, as she explore around the mill owner's home while he's out. He catches things through her senses that she doesn't always notice, which makes this so much easier. Syldra notices the almost too-faint smell of fresh paint and sawdust in a room in the process of renovation. It's perfect: save for a little more accelerant, everything she needs is already available. There's even a window with an eastward-facing exposure for a nice morning ignition.

Soon as she makes her plans, Faris leaves the house without a single thing disturbed. Best not tip the man off too soon by moving his things about, after all.

The rest of the day goes as usual. She stands by as her quartermaster has the ship loaded with supplies and nicks a pail of oil-based varnish, and maybe slips mention that she wants to be out of town by the morn. Tracks down her bos'n to check up on his recruitment drive. Tells everyone in earshot that she plans on a morning swim with Syldra and not to wait up on her if she's not back in time. Collects old and prospective crewmen alike to take all the votes and dismiss them once she records the results—and of course she's outvoted on the bit about excluding women. Watches her crew as they make merry and hassle the pubs. Goes back to Shula at the end of the day. Hey, she's just human, she's allowed.

Morning brings groaning, hungover pirates back to the ship. Her quartermaster, a man of foolish and unwavering loyalty, helped her smuggle Shula aboard and into her cabin before the sun went up. The ordinary sailor's slops she wears makes her nearly indistinguishable from every other seaman on the busy docks. Faris cheerfully slaps a few of her long-time companions on the back as they shamble up the gangplank and makes off for the mill owner's house with pail of varnish in hand. By the most indirect route possible, of course.

Now, admittedly Faris doesn't really know why rags doused in certain substances just combust sometimes. She's no scholar; her education was practical, not theoretical. Faris just remembers being twelve years old and listening with rapt attention as the ship's chief gunner and the carpenter discussed spontaneous ignition and the hazards presented by dirty and neglected materials in their respective fields. Oily rags left bundled together will ignite as surely as forgotten embers in the barrel of a cannon.

Once the mill owner leaves the house for the day, she sneaks in the back, picks the lock, pockets some valuables to hand off to Shula later, and finds the room again. It takes some time to sweep the sawdust around the carefully-placed pail that smells of varnish; she hums Drunken Sailor to herself as she does it. A little more time to spill a trail of the varnish she brought with her to a span of unfinished wooden wall paneling. With her fuel distributed nicely, she takes the wads of dry wash rags she stole from the kitchen, soaks them in the last of the varnish, and bundles them up tightly in the pail. Tips the pail on its side so that the eventual fire can access the rest of the fuel. Once the morning sunlight warms the pail just enough, it'll help the rags combust.

To be sure that Faris is nowhere near the house when it goes up in flames, she sneaks back out and takes several back alleys until she makes it to the docks. Not that she cares about being discovered, but it's the principle that counts. Her crew didn't need to wait for her, but she's glad they did—an actual swim out in polluted harbor water holds no appeal for her.

By the time Syldra feels that the ship is far enough from shore, he surfaces and deigns to be hooked up to the deceptively light mithril chains that let him tug the ship along. The newcomers ooh and ahh over him and he soaks it up like the lush he is.

As if you don't enjoy the attention, yourself, Syldra teases. He cranes his head over for a scratch.

With a fond smile she never gives to anyone human, Faris reaches out to scratch at the gaps between her friend's silvery scales. "You're my pride and joy, love. 'Course I like it when they ogle you."

An hour later, she excuses herself to swap her slops for her usual attire and settles down at her desk to file the crew roster and ship's articles for the season. Shula sits in her narrow bunk and busies herself by doing some stitching. At some point, during which she puzzles out food rationing and how to keep Shula from being found out, Syldra shares with her the image of a great black plume wafting from the upper class district of Crescent Island. It must be her little rag fire. It's probably a lovely blaze. Shame she couldn't stick around for it, but she's got work to do.

The Maelstrom heads to the port associated with Jacole. Officially, it's to take advantage of the summer trade and stalk the Nazalea archipelago for wayward ships. Unofficially, it's to drop off Shula in her home town. With any luck, both ventures will be successful.