Chapter Text
The floorboards creaked under his feet. It didn't instill him with all that much confidence; the Valeriana was rundown — the paint was peeling, the stairs were rickety, and the ropes holding the ladders together (as well as the ones holding the ship together) were fraying and undoing a little bit in a few places. The crew was nice, albeit annoying. Very annoying. Not quite as irritating as the customers, though. They had bruises, rashes, and bleeding gums so red ran between their teeth when they smiled (which they did a bit too much of, in his opinion at last). Some of them even had trouble walking down a dock without taking a moment to rest.
Malkah took a deep breath, mentally preparing for the race. He walked out of his quarters — he wasn't the captain, but he was respected and brought in a lot of money, so he got his own space — and walked along the deck to the ropes tied to his ship.
It was a cutter; a small, fast, vessel generally used for sailing. A single mast was rigged fore and aft, a mainsail and two headsails attached. Its hull design was deep and narrow with a raking transom stern, vertical stem, and a long bowsprit. On the stern of the ship there was gold lettering etched on the red paint; LIGHTNING. It was his ship and he was itching to be in it again.
Soon enough, he was back on the water. Malkah adjusted the sails and the rigging, preparing everything for the race. Other ships near did the same. Some of the cutters were already at the point to start while others were being escorted by a slightly larger ship. He waited patiently as the ship the Lightning was attached to brought him over to the starting point.
He tightened the black bandana wrapped around his head. The ninety-fives painted on the port and starboard sides shone in the daylight. He squinted up as he looked at the sky. There were a few clouds, but no sign a storm would occur during the race.
The wind was good for a race, maybe a little too much, but he'd just have to work a bit harder to win.
The other cutters, while all shaped a little differently, were designed for one purpose: speed. They were easy to break, destroy — you name it. The more bulk, the less speed. That paved the way for a lot of dirty plays, but those were all an act of desperation in Malkah’s opinion. The people who ran the races, however, disagreed. They enjoyed it, seeing the boats get damaged and the people injured.
It was a bit sickening, but it got more customers and more people excited for the races. More people that would watch him win.
A little bit later, all of the cutters were ready in a line, the rope attaching them to their sponsor’s boat ready to be untied. Each captain of a cutter had to have a strategist near them; not in the way of the race, but at a checkpoint. Accompanying the strategist would be a small crew of woodworkers and ship engineers to fix up the cutter if it got damaged. There would also be a medic just in case the captain got hurt. Rafts with medical staff were dispersed evenly along the edges of where the race would take place as well, so if someone got hurt, it would take less time for them to get medical attention.
Malkah hummed an old sea shanty under his breath as he looked out at his competitors. He wasn't worried about most of them, only two. Weathers, who was widely known as The King, and Malkah’s own copycat, Hicks. Hicks was a man who lacked original ideas and would do anything to win, including sacrificing others’ safety. The King, a much kinder man, was growing old for a racer and was hoping that his final race would be a good one for him.
Over the roar of crowds of people on large ships, some on smaller boats they rowed out from a nearby shore, Malkah narrowed his eyes as Hicks talked to a crew member of a ship full of a drunk and rowdy crowd.
He couldn't hear much except Hicks trying to talk the way he does, answer questions the way he does, with only more (less discreet) insults.
Hicks’ cutter was painted an obnoxiously bright green and his over-the-top moustache moved like a mouse beneath his nose. At least he had the decency to clean himself up. Medals from all of the races he’d won were pinned on his vest, unlike the tallies Malkah painted onto the starboard side of his ship.
The King was much more down to earth than Hicks. He didn't boast his achievements and puffed out his chest. He leaned casually onto the mainmast of his ship as he waved to the man that talked to Hicks. The crew member rowed over to The King and seemed to be having a merry conversation. It brought many whoops to the crowd, cheers flooded Malkah’s senses.
Unlike Hicks, The King showed his achievements by stature and respectability. He was kind and offered advice to other racers. Yes, some of his medals were attached to his vest, but only the back of it, not all over the front which made it hard to look at with the sun shining on the metal and beams going into your eyes.
It was sufficient to say Malkah hated Hicks and envied The King.
Weathers was the best racer in the short history with seven wins of the Agó̱nas. He had worked for the merchants of the Scylla, who sold and delivered sails, for years. Malkah could only have dreamt of working on a ship that beautiful, a ship with such a high esteem — until now. Now he had a shot, a shot at taking The King’s place.
Not only was the prize of the race a flashy medal showing you were the best of the best, but now, with Weathers’ oncoming retirement, you would become the shining star of the Scylla. A higher level of fame and status awaiting you, impatient as you board the ship for a new life.
That was not an opportunity Malkah was going to pass up on.
So, Malkah waited patiently. With a hand on his oar he stood on his ship and waited for the race to begin.
A gunshot was all that was needed for a single rope to be pulled and his cutter to move. Gaining speed, he maneuvered through other ships that were failing greatly.
Malkah looked ahead of him as he leaned in his ship to tip it over a little bit to follow the curved route of the race. Hicks was chasing Weathers’ tail, stuck in his shadow. Just like he had been for years.
A few more twists and turns was all it took for Malkah to be caught up with Hicks. That didn't last very long. Hicks gritted his teeth and Malkah pulled ahead, making Hicks slow down so he wouldn't crash and ruin his chance of winning.
Hicks returned to his speed, trying to become neck and neck with Malkah once again. Giving up on that dream, he turned his ship slightly to the left, pushing the Lightning out of his way. Stumbling across his deck and fixing the rigging, Malkah struggled to keep his ship upright.
Paddling back into the bounds of the race, Malkah saw all the other ships pass him.
Fuck.
But the drunk fans were still cheering for him.
Hicks cut off another ship forcefully, causing it to rear up and the captain to fall out. The ship almost crashed into another, which deftly avoided it, but couldn’t avoid the ship behind it crashing into its stern. Ship after ship crashed, contenders trying to stay afloat and get back on their vessel.
Malkah tightened his hold on the rigging, pulling it to move the sail into the position he wanted it in. Risky maneuver after risky maneuver, bloodied body after ruined ship, Malkah cut through the other ships with what he hoped would be seen as ease.
The crowds got louder. They were cheering his name.
Face screwed up with focus, he had a renewal of energy and wit.
If you could call it that, anyway.
The other ships, some rather slowly, were checked up on by their crew. Quite a few captains were treated medically, their ships probably done for.
Hicks was busy with his crew fixing up all the rigging that became undone with his dishonorable decision.
Malkah moved on past the crews, including his own. The other ships were slowly making it back on course, and he was ahead of them. Of course, another cutter was in front, regulating his speed as everyone else was stopped with their crews.
Soon enough everyone was back on the course (except for the ships taken out of the race due to too much damage) and Malkah was moving freely. Another round of the course, then another. Over and over again, until his rigging was a little worse for wear.
Cutters, the ones in the races, used cheap rope that broke and wore thin easily, making it hard to go as long as he did without fixing it.
He stopped at his crew, finally. They rushed around the ship, messing with the rope.
“No!” Malkah shouted over the crowds and wind. “No replacements! Just the knots.”
Angrily, his crew followed his command. As he went off, his crew yelled at him.
“You need new rigging, idiot!”
One season in and three strategists fired, one of which he let go just a couple weeks prior. He wasn't very happy that one of his crew was acting like one.
The rest of his stops went the same; only fixing the knots which held the ship together.
Less than one round through the course and he would win.
A snap turned his head.
Shit.
One of the ropes had frayed a bit too much and was pulled apart completely by the movement of the ship and Malkah’s strong pulling. Grasping his oar tightly, ignoring admonishments from his crew, he paddled around the final bend.
The King and Hicks work harder, go faster, all the while Malkah is desperately trying to hold on to the lead he probably just lost.
Another snap and another important part of his rigging gone. The sail was swinging wildly and he held onto it, trying to paddle at the same time.
A small rowboat with a tall man holding a green flag waited for one of the three to reach him.
He got more than what he bargained for.
Three ships, one a bit wrecked, crossed at roughly the same time. A mix of cheering and sounds of confusion came from the crowds.
That wasn't how The King’s career was supposed to end.
That wasn't how Hicks was supposed to beat his adversary.
And that was definitely not how Malkah was supposed to win.