Ambrose spent the better part of the afternoon cursing the ship, and the lesser part thinking on the blasted accord. They were days from the nearest port, and there was no guarantee that the Griffin’s Claw was even headed there. Without land, there was no escape, and without an escape, he would be left to either rot in the brig, perish in the captain’s games, or…

Or brew potions for pirates.

So when the sound of boots on wood returned, he stood, cursed once more for good measure, and straightened his coat.

“I’ll be an independent contractor,” he said as soon as the red coat was in sight. “Not a member of your crew. I won’t take a share of any plunder, and I won’t participate in boardings. And my contract will end once I…” He trailed off as he noticed what was in the captain’s hands—a bowl of something steaming and smelling vaguely of onions. “What are you doing?”

Valenz stared at him. “Feeding you. Unless you’ve got a roast chicken in that bandolier of yours?”

Ambrose stepped back and swallowed the rest of his demands as Valenz entered the cell, one hand held out. “The potions for your dinner, if you would be so kind.”

It was an easy trade—Ambrose had already determined amidst his cursing spree that none of his potions could help him escape. He handed over the bandolier, took the bowl, and escaped to the far corner of the cell, while Valenz sat and lounged on the other side, boots crossed.

“Independent contractor,” he mused aloud as Ambrose did his best not to inhale the soup in one breath. Surprisingly, the broth wasn’t awful—and were those actual vegetables floating in there? “And when will this contract of yours end, Mr. Beake?”

Here was the least dignified part of his plan—or at least, the part a seasoned sailor like Valenz would scoff at—but he supposed it must be said. Ambrose took another spoonful of broth and cleared his throat. “When I’ve made enough to open a potion shop on land.”

“Captain.” Valenz turned his gaze from the vial he was holding up to the light. “Potion shop on land, captain.”

Ambrose said nothing. The man wasn’t his captain, not yet.

Valenz sighed and pocketed the vial. “Very well. How are you going to make enough money to open a shop? You’ve already declined any share in the ship’s plunder.”

“On average, ships toss twenty percent of their potions due to their expiration dates, and Navy rules forbid those potions from being used by civilians,” Ambrose said. “Let me sell those potions when we dock, and I’ll make the money that way.”

Valenz frowned. “What, and use up the valuable ingredients my quartermaster provides for you?”

“Ingredients that would go to waste otherwise,” Ambrose corrected. “I’d never sell something your crew would use. And,” he set aside the bowl, “I know how to stretch those ingredients. My last quartermaster took half my budget and spent it on wine.”

Valenz snorted. “Sounds about right.”

Ambrose kept still as the captain fell silent, toying once more with the vials in the bandolier. Perhaps if he made no noise, Valenz would conveniently forget that he was here.

But then the captain stood, slung the bandolier over his shoulder, and held out a hand. “Very well.”

Ambrose stared dumbly at the hand. “I’m sorry?”

“I accept your terms, Mr. Beake.” He gestured again with his hand. “You’ll brew for my crew until you show me the books and prove to me you have enough saved to start your shop. At that time, I promise to let you go free.”

Ambrose scrambled to his feet, reached for the hand—then paused. “I’ll need you to swear it.”

“On my honor as a pirate?”

Ambrose huffed and grasped for something else. “On your ship. Swear on your ship that you’ll let me go when it’s time.”

To his surprise, Valenz nodded. “I swear it on my ship.”

Ambrose gave him a stiff nod and took his hand, calloused and roughened by rope and salt. “Then I’ll brew for you, captain.”

The last word settled heavily in Ambrose’s throat as Valenz gave him another damned crooked grin. “Welcome aboard the Griffin’s Claw, Mr. Beake.”