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her head against her arm. Blessedly, the rope began to move, pulled up by several of the sailors above. When she was high enough, an enormous man with his black hair in dreadlocks reached down and grabbed her under her arms, then dumped her onto the deck. The last spores on her clothing died as the silver in this ship’s deck killed them. “Captain Crow said we could pull you up if you lasted fifteen minutes,” another sailor said, a shorter woman. “Can’t believe you did. You’re a strong one.” Tress coughed, lying on the deck, her exhausted arms pulled against her. Fifteen minutes? That had been only fifteen minutes? It had felt like hours. “Not strong,” Tress said, hoarse. “Just stubborn.” “That’s even better,” the sailor said. Huck wisely kept quiet, though he snapped his teeth at a sailor who tried to grab him. “What are you?” Tress said to the sailors. “King’s men? Privateers?” “Neither,” said another of the sailors. “We’ll put up the king’s colors soon, but that’s a lie. It’s our pretty face. Doug’s sewing us a proper flag so it will be ready for next time. Black on red.” Black on red? It was pirates after all. Was that an upgrade or a downgrade from being among smugglers? And why had they sunk that other ship, never asking for loot? A stout figure pushed through the sailors. Captain Crow—judging by the plume in her hat—had harsh lines for a face, with tan skin and a scowl deep as the ocean. Crow was…well, I’ve known a few people like her. She seemed too harsh. Too full of anger. She was like the first draft of a human being, before softening effects like humor and mercy had been added. “Throw her overboard,” the captain said. “But you said we could haul her up!” said the short woman. “That I did, and that you did. Now toss her.” No one moved to obey. “Look at how scrawny she is,” the captain snapped. “An inspector? I’ve known a few of those—they pick the job for its ease. She’ll have never worked a day in her life, and there’s no place for anyone without a use on the Song.” The pirates still appeared reluctant. Why would they care about her? But their hesitance was an opportunity. So Tress—dizzy with exhaustion—pulled herself across the deck and struggled to her knees. She’d spotted a bucket and brush here, and she methodically—as fast as she could make her aching arms work—took out the brush and started scrubbing the deck. Captain Crow eyed her. The only sounds were the seething spores and the brush scraping back and forth. At last, the captain pulled a canteen from her belt and took a long drink. It did look like a nice canteen. With leather up the outsides that had feather patterns imprinted on it. Even when exhausted, Tress appreciated a good drinking vessel. Crow stalked off—and gave no further orders to deal with Tress. The pirates retreated to their posts, and no one tossed her. She kept working
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anyway. Scrubbing as Huck whispered encouragement in her ear. She worked well into the night, until—numb with fatigue—she finally curled up in one corner of the deck and fell asleep. Tress awoke the next day with a face full of hair. She felt stiff, like a washrag that was long overdue for a turn in the laundry. She unfolded herself from the deck, trying to tie back her hair, and vaguely remembered being kicked during the night and told to move so she wouldn’t be underfoot. She’d done it, but had been kicked awake again for the same reason on two separate occasions. There didn’t appear to be any place on the deck where she wouldn’t be underfoot. Her next thought wasn’t for food. It wasn’t for something to drink, or other biological needs. It was for Charlie. Never had Tress felt so naive. She’d thought she could simply leave her home and rescue someone? Even though she’d never set foot on a ship before? She felt a fool. Worse, she felt pain for Charlie, who must be somewhere frightened, trapped and alone. His agony was her agony. It might seem that the person who can feel for others is doomed in life. Isn’t one person’s pain enough? Why must a person like Tress feel for two, or more? Yet I’ve found that the people who are the happiest are the ones who learn best how to feel. It takes practice, you know. Effort. And those who (late in life) have been feeling for two, three, or a thousand different people…well, turns out they’ve had a leg up on everyone else all along. Empathy is an emotional loss leader. It pays for itself eventually. That wasn’t of much comfort at the time for Tress, miserable on the deck, realizing that—before she could even think of helping Charlie—she was going to have to find a way to save herself. She huddled against the gunwale, and heard someone belowdecks yelling that “first watch” could come to mess. Huck whispered something to her and scrambled off to investigate. Tress’s grumbling stomach reminded her that the last thing she’d had to eat or drink had been the water that made her see pigeons. So, aching, she climbed to her feet. “Mess” meant food on a ship, right? Maybe they wouldn’t notice if she… A lanky figure in an unbuttoned military coat stepped in front of her. Bald, with scruff on his chin, the fellow wore a sword at his side and had two pistols tucked into his belt. Laggart, the cannonmaster, was the ship’s first officer. He had wiry muscles, and that long neck and bald head hinted he might have a buzzard somewhere in his family tree. He looked Tress up and down. “First watch can eat,” Laggart said. “Those are the men and women getting ready to take over sailing for the day. Are you going to be working the sails or the rigging today, honey-hair?” “…No,” Tress whispered. “Second shift will eat next,” Laggart said. “They worked all night, and can eat as
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soon as their replacements arrive.” “And…what watch am I?” Tress asked softly. “Captain says you’re third watch,” Laggart said, then smiled as he left. Eventually second watch was called, and the sailors exchanged places. Tress waited, groggy and stiff. And she waited. And waited. One might say she was quite the waitress that morning. Third watch was never called. Tress suspected she was the only one “assigned” to it. So she did her best to ignore her stomach, instead observing the pirates at work. Maybe if she learned their tasks, she’d be able to anticipate how to keep out of their way. She spent the morning so occupied, and fortunately most of them didn’t seem bothered by her. They weren’t a jovial crew, but they were apparently a dedicated one. A few times, Tress caught Captain Crow watching her from the side while drinking from her canteen. Her glare made Tress feel like a stubborn spot on a window. Best to put herself to work. She rummaged in her sack, checking on her cups, then took out her hairbrush. After beating her hair into submission and locking it away in a braid, she picked up her bucket and floor brush—then realized she didn’t have any more water or soap. She stood there looking foolish before someone approached with a fresh bucket for her. She thanked him, then—with a start—realized she recognized him. It was Hoid, cabin boy of the Whistlebow. There was no mistaking his gangly figure and his pure white head of hair. Though everyone called him “boy,” he appeared to be in his thirties and evidently of sound mind—until he opened his mouth. “My gums sure do like a lickin’!” he said to her, then walked away with a bowlegged gait that made him wobble like a drunk penguin. Yes, that’s me. No, I don’t want to talk about it. As I wandered off to go stuff shoelaces up my nose, Tress moved up to the quarterdeck, as it had less traffic. Here she set to work again. Turned out, Tress was quite good at scrubbing decks. It was like scrubbing windows, except you didn’t need to be able to see through them at the end. In fact it was too easy, perhaps demeaning of her washing talents. Like hiring a world-class surgeon to cut the crust off your sandwich. During her breaks, she watched the crew. She was able to pick out other faces that—like Hoid—she knew, if only vaguely. Often ships passing the Rock would unload a few crewmembers. These would get a pass from the inspector and would be hired on by another visiting vessel. This didn’t seem to be a notably rough lot—it was a mixed crew, with a variety of ethnicities and nearly as many women as men. That wasn’t uncommon in the spore seas. You took whoever was willing. Sexism interfered with profits. How had such a normal crew ended up as pirates? And not merely ordinary pirates, bloodthirsty ones who would sink a ship without asking for plunder? They didn’t even cover up
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the name of their vessel, Tress thought. And they left one sailor alive. Something was strange about this ship. “I’ve been wanting to gargle my shirts!” I said, walking past. I pointed at her with both hands and winked. “But I ate them last week.” Tress cocked her head, watching me wander away. As she did, Huck scampered across the deck and up onto her shoulder. “What is wrong with that guy?” the rat asked softly. “I’m not entirely certain,” Tress whispered. “I’ve met him before though. He’s nice. If…weird.” “People who collect stamps are weird, Tress. That man is a few eggs short of a dozen—and he doesn’t realize the other ten he collected are actually rocks.” Sigh. All right, so here’s the thing. I’d had an encounter—well, more a collision—with the Sorceress a few years before. Let’s just say she had something I needed, but liberating it from her proved more difficult than I’d assumed. The end result? The Sorceress gave me one of her famous curses. Look, even the most graceful dancer trips once in a while. My curse took away my sense of taste and, well, my other four senses as well. “What did you find out?” Tress asked the rat. “I snatched some food,” Huck said, “but could only get rat-sized portions. Sorry. Also, they really are sewing a pirate flag. I’d guess they’re new to this. Maybe that’s why they accidentally sank the other ship.” “No,” Tress whispered, returning to her scrubbing. “They left one sailor alive on purpose, and didn’t cover their ship’s name. They didn’t sink that ship because of inexperience…” “…they did it to declare themselves,” Huck agreed. “The pirate version of sending out a crier to announce a sale at the cobbler’s shop. Moonshadows. They killed almost thirty people.” Tress looked up across the crew working at their posts. Earlier, she’d read intent and focus in their movements. Now she saw something else. A kind of acute desire to lose themselves in work. Perhaps to avoid having to think about what had happened the day before. Something is very wrong on this ship, she thought again. Unfortunately, before she could think more on that, other matters—of a more scatological nature—demanded her attention. The Crow’s Song was a much larger ship than Tress’s previous one. Oot’s Dream had been a two-masted vessel, similar to what you might call a brigantine. The Crow’s Song was instead a full four-masted vessel, built for speed but with a spacious cargo hold and multiple decks. It was the equivalent of what you’d call a small galleon—and it had a rather large crew for Tress’s world, consisting of sixty people. I’m not going to ask you to remember them all. Mostly because I don’t remember them all. Therefore, for ease of both narrative and our collective sanity, I’m going to name only the more important members of the Crow’s Song. The rest, regardless of gender, I’ll call “Doug.” You’d be surprised how common the name is across worlds. Oh, some spell it “Dug” or “Duhg,” but it’s always
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around. Regardless of local linguistics, parents eventually start naming their kids Doug. I once spent ten years on a planet where the only sapient life was a group of pancakelike beings that expressed themselves through flatulence. And I kid you not—one was named Doug. Though admittedly it had a very distinctive smell attached when the word was “spoken.” “Doug” is the naming equivalent to convergent evolution. And once it arrives, it stays. A linguistic Great Filter; a wakeup call. Once a society reaches peak Doug, it’s time for it to go sit in the corner and think about what it has done. Anyway, there was at least one woman actually named Doug on the Crow’s Song, but I can’t remember which one she was—so for the purposes of this story, they’re all Dougs. Tress approached one and asked—hesitantly—where the toilet was. The Doug pointed her toward the stairs down, explaining that the “middle deck head” was for low-ranking crew. With Huck on her shoulder, she began to explore. The ship had four levels. The Dougs called the top one—which was exposed to the sky—the “upper deck.” The “middle deck” contained places like the mess and the armory, and small rooms for officers. The “lower deck” was a cramped place where most of the sailors made their bunks. Beneath that was the hold, a cavernous space for the copious loot the pirates would surely acquire once they figured out how to stop sinking it all to the bottom of the ocean. There were several toilet rooms, with working plumbing, thank the moons. She peeked into an unoccupied one and saw a toilet, but no bath. How did the crew bathe? She desperately wished she could, as she kept finding dead spores in the folds of her clothing. It made her skin writhe to think how much of it must have gotten on her. She did her business in the cramped chamber with only a tiny porthole in the wall for light. Huck politely waited outside without being prompted, proving quite gentlemanly for a rat. Feeling a little better, Tress slipped out and let him hop back onto her shoulder. What did they do with human waste, out here on the ocean? Save it all up for composting on islands? What about on long voyages? Dumping it overboard seemed dangerous, not to mention gross. Dangergross? On her way back to the upper deck, she heard a voice coming from a room near the head. She lingered, peeking in to see a man behind a counter—the large man with dreadlocks who had hauled her onto the deck. Now, when I say “large,” you might have imagined him as heavyset, or perhaps beefy. He was both, yes, but neither word did justice to Fort, the ship’s quartermaster. Fort wasn’t large like, “Hey, eat a salad” or even large like, “Hey, do you play sports?” He was large like, “Hey, how did you get through the door?” It wasn’t that he was fat, though he did carry a few extra pounds. More, he looked like a person
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built using a different scale from the rest of humanity. One could imagine that the Shards, after creating him, had said, “Maybe we went a little far in places,” and decided to cut ten percent off all other humans to conserve resources. Fort was holding up a ceramic cannonball that was small in his hands. His fingers on both hands were gnarled, either from some old injury or a congenital disease. The condition had to affect his dexterity. He was with a gangly woman in a vest and trousers, her hair cut very short. Ann (the ship’s carpenter) had a nose like a dart and carried not one, not two, but three pistols strapped to various places on her person. Fort handed Ann the cannonball, and although it looked light in his grip, the way she hefted it indicated otherwise. Then he picked up what appeared to be a wooden sign with a black front. Maybe two feet across and somewhat less tall. “You examined each one in the armory?” Ann asked. Fort glanced at the back of his wooden board and nodded. “You didn’t find any others that were defective?” Ann asked. Fort tapped the back of the wooden sign, and words appeared on the front. Not a single one, the sign said. Each one I inspected has a proper fuse, timed to explode before it sinks a ship, so it can be captured and looted. Ann thumped the ball onto the counter. “Well, if none of the others are defective, we shouldn’t have to worry about sinking someone else by accident.” Fort again tapped something on the rear of the board using his index knuckle. As he did, the words changed. I don’t like this, Ann. We were supposed to launch cannonballs that only incapacitated the ship, not sank it. I hate that we ended up killing those people, and I really don’t like how the captain acted afterward. It doesn’t make sense. “What are you saying?” Ann asked. I’m saying I don’t like this at all. It’s not the kind of piracy we signed up for. “I don’t like it either,” Ann said. “But it’s too late to change our minds. This is better than getting conscripted, at least.” Is it though? Is it really? I didn’t want those people’s deaths on my shoulders, Ann. Ann didn’t respond. Finally, she stood up straight and walked toward the door. Tress felt a moment of panic, not wanting to be discovered eavesdropping, and scurried back into the head. Tress listened to Ann leave up the steps outside. “What do you make of that, Huck?” she whispered. “Don’t know,” he said. “Sounds like they didn’t intend to sink the Oot’s Dream, which makes sense. But after the first cannonball broke through the hull and started the ship going down, the pirates must have decided to finish the job.” Tress nodded, although she didn’t know what to think about all of this. “They’re still culpable though,” Huck added. “What did they think would happen, turning pirate and attacking? They can’t simply decide to
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be sad for killing someone after trying to rob them. These pirates are outlaws now, Tress.” “Doesn’t sound fair,” she said. “The king would hang the quartermaster even if he didn’t fire the cannon?” “The law is clear. Felony murder rule, to be precise. Commit a crime and someone dies? That’s murder. Even if you weren’t intending it. The royal navy will be hunting this lot—and we’d best not be on board when they get caught. Just in case the officials don’t believe you’re a captive.” It was a wise suggestion. This ship was a death trap—either the captain would eventually tire of her, or she’d end up dead in the inevitable fighting. She had a job to do in saving Charlie, and couldn’t waste time. But how to escape? She couldn’t exactly jump overboard. Plus, her dry throat warned her that she had other more immediate concerns. If the captain wouldn’t let her eat, she wouldn’t live long enough to escape. She snuck over to the quartermaster’s room again and glanced in to see that the large man had turned his back toward the door. He was arranging things in his many trunks and boxes behind the counter. Could she steal something to eat? Or perhaps Huck could do it for her? She glanced at him. “What?” he asked loudly. Tress glared at him, making a shushing motion. “I think he’s deaf,” Huck said. “When I was prowling earlier, I heard someone mention that the quartermaster couldn’t hear.” Indeed, Fort continued his work, still facing away from them. He didn’t notice them talking. “I met a deaf human once,” Huck said. “She was a dancer, and one of the best under the moons—best I’d seen, anyway. I was enjoying the time with her, but it ended up getting interrupted in a rather abrupt way. Which is a shame, but things happen. I also couldn’t afford to talk to her, since—you know, things relating to who and what I am. Didn’t want to reveal myself.” “Maybe,” Tress suggested, “this would be another good time to not talk. Unless you want one of the pirates to realize they have a potentially sellable loquacious rat on board.” “Yeah, good point,” he said. “It’s just, I spent all those weeks hiding on the smuggler ship before they grabbed me. Got kind of lonely. It’s good to have someone to chat with…” She glanced at him. “…which I’ll stop doing now.” Tress moved to leave—but as she did so, one of the boards creaked underfoot. Fort spun immediately in her direction, then narrowed his eyes as he saw her. He might not have been able to hear, but every quartermaster I’ve ever known has a kind of sixth sense for when people are sneaking around near their goods. Beneath the enormous man’s glare, Tress felt like bolting. But he had been the one who’d pulled her up onto the deck. She stood in place instead, until he raised his strange board from the counter. Come here, girl, it read. It wouldn’t do any good to run.
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So, feeling like she was entering the dragon’s den, Tress entered the room. Fort looked her up and down, rubbing his chin with thick fingers. Finally, he tapped the back of his board and words appeared for her. You have a name? “Tress, sir.” And are you truly a royal inspector? “I…” Tress swallowed. “No. The coat doesn’t belong to me. I stole it.” You’re a pirate now, Fort wrote. What you steal IS what belongs to you. “I’m not a pirate,” she said. You are so long as you want to keep breathing, Fort wrote. Don’t tell anyone you don’t intend to join us. That sort of talk gets a person tossed overboard. Tress nodded. “Thank you, sir.” Don’t call me sir. I left that title behind a long time ago. My name is Fort. Anyone feed you yet? In response, her stomach growled. She shook her head. Fort leaned below his counter, then came up with a plate, the thin ceramic edge held between the first two fingers of his hand. Earlier, she’d thought he would lack dexterity due to his fingers—which looked like they’d each been broken in several places, then allowed to heal without splints. Yet he managed quite well. Some actions took more effort, and his hands did tremble, but he was obviously capable, even if he had to do things differently from other people. After placing the plate before her, he pulled out a pot, scraped at the bottom, and slopped some crusty hash browns onto the plate. He followed that with some watery eggs. Leftovers from breakfast, Tress thought. The dregs the others didn’t eat. She waited, with difficulty, before eating anything. He watched her, then dropped a fork onto the plate. She took this as permission and dug in. It was awful. The overcooked hash browns had the consistency of beetle shells—complementing the eggs, which were reminiscent of what might have been found inside those beetle shells. You didn’t have to be a master cook to tell this food was awful, but to someone like Tress it was worse. Feeding her cold and crusty leftovers—the bits that hadn’t gotten any spices on them—was like locking a master pianist in a room by themself, then piping in off-tune kazoo renditions of great masterpieces. Tress didn’t complain. She needed to eat, and she wasn’t going to reject the only thing she’d been offered. Despite it tasting less like food and more like what food turned into. To take her mind off the “meal,” Tress nodded to the board that Fort used for communicating. “That’s an odd device.” He handed her a cup of water (a nice bronze one that lacked ornamentation, but shone when it caught the light). The water at least tasted pure and clean. She drank it down eagerly. It is, isn’t it? Fort wrote. Your words appear for me on the back as you speak. It can even differentiate voices, and puts a mark before them to indicate someone new is talking. “Wow,” Tress said. Now, you might be wondering why Fort didn’t
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read lips. I, like many hearing people, once assumed this was the magical solution for people navigating the hearing world. But in case you haven’t heard—pun intended—reading lips doesn’t work like it does in stories. It’s a messy business, full of guesswork, and is extremely taxing. Even for experts. Fort used to rely on it anyway, enduring its low accuracy. Until he was able to find his way to this device. It had many functions—including some he didn’t know yet. For example, the words would appear larger if he wrote fewer of them, taking up all the space on the board. But when he wrote longer messages, the words shrank to fit more. It’s wonderful, Fort said. I got it from a wizard a few years ago. “A wizard?” Tress said. From beyond the stars, Fort said. A very strange fellow. He used it to translate words to our language. I traded hard to get it. It seemed to surprise him when he realized how much it would help. It’s hard for me to write the usual way for hearing people, since I can’t make some of the shapes. That “wizard” from the stars wasn’t me, by the way. I’ve always wondered who traded the device to Fort. That’s Nalthian tech, with Awakened predictive Connection circuits. Fort turned the board around and showed her the back, where he could tap letters and bring down lists of common words. The board anticipated his needs, giving likely options. It worked with supernatural speed, seeming to anticipate his very thoughts. I have to leave it out in the sun once a week, or it stops working, Fort wrote. And its magic won’t respond to anyone other than me. So don’t think about stealing it. “I wouldn’t dare,” Tress said with a start. “I mean…you’ve been so kind to me.” It isn’t kindness, Fort wrote. It’s a trade. “For what?” Haven’t decided yet, Fort said. Go back to your food, girl. She did. Unfortunately. As she tried valiantly to keep eating, another of the sailors walked in. This was the shorter woman who had stood up to the captain the day before. Her black hair was in tight curls. She strode in and slapped something on the counter, barely giving Tress a glance. How to describe Salay, the helmswoman? She was the same ethnicity as Fort, and like him was from the Islands of Lobu in the Sapphire Sea, where the zephyr spores release a burst of air when watered. She had delicate features, but wasn’t the least bit fragile. “All right, Fort,” she said. “I’ll give you three.” She’d deposited three small earrings onto the table. I told you, Salay, Fort wrote. I have no use for earrings. They make my ears itch. “Four then,” Salay said, placing another on the counter. “I won them off a Doug at cards, but it’s all I have. They’re solid gold. You won’t get a better deal anywhere.” At the word “deal,” Fort perked up visibly. He inspected the earrings. “Come on, Fort,” Salay said. “I need to
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get back to duty.” Fort rubbed his chin, then scratched at his dreadlocked head. Then he took something from below the counter and set it out for her: a pocket watch. “Finally,” Salay said, slipping it off the counter and hurrying out. Fort inspected the earrings one at a time, smiling. It was true that he had no use for earrings, but…it was a good deal. And good deals, to Fort, were their own reward. Tress managed to choke down the last of the food. She felt she deserved a medal for that. Fort merely gave her another cup of water, then shooed her away—but not before he wrote, Come back after everyone else has had supper. Maybe I’ll have something for you to eat. Tress nodded in thanks. On her way out, she passed me skipping a little as I went in to settle on a stool before Fort’s counter. The quartermaster brought out some more of the “food” and gave it to me. “My favorite!” I said. Don’t try to eat the plate this time, please, Fort wrote. I dug into the food, humming to myself at the flavor. What? Yes, I could taste it. Why wouldn’t I be able… Oh, the five senses? Yes, I said I lost my sense of taste to the Sorceress’s curse. You thought…you thought I meant that sense of taste? Oh, you innocent fool. She took my other sense of taste. The important one. And with it went my sense of humor, my sense of decorum, my sense of purpose, and my sense of self. The last one stung the most, since it appears my sense of self is tied directly to my wit. I mean, it’s in the name. As a result, I present you with Hoid, the cabin boy. Anyway, that rounds out the people you need to remember for now. Captain Crow. First officer (and cannonmaster) Laggart. Fort the quartermaster, Ann the carpenter, and Salay the helmswoman. Everyone else was a Doug, I think… Oh, right. I nearly forgot Ulaam. But seeing as he was dead, he barely counted. With her stomach full of “food,” Tress was able to return to the top deck and resume her scrubbing with renewed vigor. She didn’t know how long it had been since someone had properly washed this deck, but it was coated with a layer of dead spores that had turned black with grime. It took real work to get down to the actual wood, and so her progress was slow. “Wow,” Huck said from her shoulder, comparing the dark grimy wood ahead to the vibrant brown planks she’d cleaned, silver lines sparkling between many of them. “That really makes a difference.” “Spore scum sticks to basically anything,” she said, scrubbing hard. “I’ve never found a better remedy than soap and effort. This wood is going to need some pitch when I’m done though.” Tress knew quite a lot about sailors for someone who knew next to nothing about sailing. She had listened to many a man or woman complain about the life,
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which—to hear them talk—was an existence full of drudgery. Many an off-duty sailor in the tavern had been assigned scrubbing duty before, so Tress knew that pitch on the boards would seal them and fill the gaps—plus it made them far less slippery. And you always scrubbed across planks, never along them, so you didn’t wear grooves down the centers. Her head was full of wisdom like that: the wisdom of complaints. It also taught her the hierarchy of a ship’s crew. Most of the sailors would be equals, save for the officers. She’d met all of those except two: the ship’s surgeon and the ship’s sprouter. She’d never understood that last term, not until she’d seen the man use the spores on the previous ship. She passed midday, and ignored her stomach as it started to growl again. It should have known better, after what she’d done to it at breakfast. Fortunately, she found out where to get new water—from barrels in the hold—and she was allowed a cupful to drink each time she went to refill her bucket. Otherwise, she scrubbed. Tragically, this work—like washing windows—was great thinking work. And her mind was, as I believe we’ve established, often full of thoughts. That is one of the great mistakes people make: assuming that someone who does menial work does not like thinking. Physical labor is great for the mind, as it leaves all kinds of time to consider the world. Other work, like accounting or scribing, demands little of the body—but siphons energy from the mind. If you wish to become a storyteller, here is a hint: sell your labor, but not your mind. Give me ten hours a day scrubbing a deck, and oh the stories I could imagine. Give me ten hours adding sums, and all you’ll have me imagining at the end is a warm bed and a thought-free evening. Tress’s mind spun around what the quartermaster had said about the cannonballs. What had gone wrong? She was so intrigued that when she picked her next section to scrub, she placed herself near the forward cannon. Moments later, a Doug called to her. “Hey, you!” he said. “New girl! Yes, you. Come on now, I need your help!” Concerned, but too polite to object, Tress stowed her bucket and brush. She dusted off her knees, then followed after the Doug as he led her down to the hold. Here he gathered some cannonballs from a bin. “Carry that,” he said, pointing to a small keg near the wall. Tress hesitantly picked it up, finding it lighter than she’d expected. “What’s this?” she asked. “Zephyr spores,” the man said. “From the Sapphire Sea.” She nearly dropped the keg in shock. Spores? An entire keg of them? She could see why he’d demanded her help. Indeed, he eagerly chose to carry the much heavier cannonballs, leaving her the task of lugging the spores. “Why,” she said, “do we have a small keg of spores?” “For firing the cannons,” the Doug explained. “Can’t just drop a cannonball in! You need
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something to go poof, send the ball flying.” Spores? They used spores to fire the cannons? She carried the keg more gingerly as they started up the steps. “Normally,” the Doug said, “this would be old Weev’s job, seein’ as how it involves spores and all.” “Weev? Is he the ship’s sprouter?” “He was.” The Doug’s expression fell. “Nice fellow. Liked having him around. He was terrible at bluffing, you know, so I always beat him at cards.” “What happened?” “Didn’t want to become a pirate.” “So he got off at port?” “Oh, he got off,” the Doug said. “But there wasn’t no port…” He glanced toward Captain Crow, who stood on the quarterdeck sipping at her canteen, wind blowing the black feather in her hat. “Captain killed him?” Tress whispered. “He was the only one who stood up to her,” the Doug said, “when she proposed this new occupational direction. Well, Weev is occupyin’ the bottom of the ocean now. Sprouters are a crazy lot, always spendin’ more time than’s right around spores. But he didn’t deserve that. Just for askin’ questions we was all thinkin’.” He fell silent. At least she now knew why she hadn’t met the ship’s sprouter yet. And now you know why I didn’t tell you to remember his name. Also, no, he’s not the corpse. Well, he’s a corpse. But he’s not the corpse on the ship. There’s another. Try to keep up. The Doug led Tress to the cannonmaster’s station. Laggart wasn’t there at the moment, and the forecannon was lashed in place with its paraphernalia. The Doug began unloading cannonballs into a bin. “All right,” he said to Tress. “I’m going to go get a few more cannonballs to refill the stock. See that big barrel there? It’s lined, like that keg you’re holding, with stuff that protects spores from our silver. We need spores alive for shooting cannonballs at other folks. “The cannonmaster though, he needs those spores in little pouches he can stuff into the cannon easily during a fight. You’ll find empty pouches in the barrel. What you need to do is pour those spores into the pouches—without spilling any—and tie them off. Also, you got to do your pouring inside the larger barrel, because of the lining that protects the spores.” The Doug shifted uncomfortably on the deck, his hands in his pockets, looking at her. “Very well,” Tress said. “No complaints?” he asked. She shook her head. She’d rather not do the work, as she was terrified of spores. But she also couldn’t let that fear inconvenience the others. After all, she was newest on the ship. It made sense that she should do the dangerous work no one else wanted. Tress moved over to the barrel and took off the lid. At the bottom were some filled pouches; a bunch of empty ones were in a little net attached to the outside. “You’re…really not going to complain?” the Doug asked. “I complained when they made me do it.” “You’re probably smarter than I am,” Tress said. “Any
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tips?” “There’s a funnel, some goggles, and a mask. Other than that…try not to worry. This ain’t the most dangerous type of spores. You should be fine.” Many perils could fit between the sounds in “should be.” But Tress was alive because the crew had resisted tossing her overboard when the captain had demanded. It seemed best to stay in their good graces. So Tress simply nodded and got to work. The blue spores fascinated Tress. They were the first spores from another moon, another sea, that she’d seen up close. They were beautiful, almost crystalline. The fact that they could likely kill her with ease only made them more captivating. Like an expertly forged sword crafted with love, dedication, and sweat by a smith so that someday you could do the most ugly things possible in the most beautiful of ways. She sent Huck away with a quiet word, to not put him in danger. Then she whispered a prayer to the moons and thought of Charlie. Getting the crew to trust her was the best way to further her goal of reaching him. Doing the work they didn’t want to do themselves was bound to lead her toward opportunities. Even washing windows had led her to opportunities. The most important one being when she met Charlie in the first place. All that in mind—and with the mask over her mouth and the goggles over her eyes—she felt only slightly terrified as she lowered the small keg into the larger barrel. There were hooks on the side where she could affix it, and the spigot at the bottom of the keg—like for pouring beer—let the spores drain out at a careful rate. Her hand still shook as she held the funnel and filled up the first pouch with the radiant blue spores. She tied it and set it carefully on the bottom of the barrel near the other pouches. She fell into a rhythm, filling them, taking care not to spill a single spore. It was tense work, far worse for thinking than cleaning the deck. But Tress—being Tress—couldn’t avoid thoughts entirely. She wondered exactly what the spores did that made the cannon fire. She wondered if there were other types of spores being carried in the ship’s armory—and who managed them, if the crew’s sprouter was dead. Also, she wondered why the large barrel had a false bottom. She recognized it easily. After all, she’d spent several weeks becoming an expert on barrel contraptions and how to hide things in them. On one of the devices she’d prepared for leaving the Rock, they’d installed a secret latch hidden right about…there. She found it near the barrel’s banding. A little piece of metal she could wiggle. When she moved it, a hole—little larger than a fist—opened in the bottom of the barrel. A few pouches of spores dropped in, and her breath caught. When she reached in to pull them out, her fingers brushed something else. A cannonball. Hidden in the cavity beneath the barrel’s false bottom. There was room for
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three or four of them inside. She quickly pulled the pouches out and reset the device. As she returned to her work, her hands trembled even more. Her mind raced so fast, it would soon need a new set of tires. She could see it. She knew what had happened. The cannonmaster was in charge of loading, aiming, and firing the weapon. He’d be given a rack of cannonballs, but who would be watching to see if he grabbed one from this secret compartment instead? Probably no one. She bet those hidden cannonballs wouldn’t pass Fort’s inspection—they wouldn’t be rigged to incapacitate the target with vines. Laggart, the cannonmaster, had deliberately sunk that other ship. But why? The entire situation didn’t make sense for a multitude of reasons. It wasn’t just the lack of plunder. Why bother hiding the fact that they were going to sink the ship? Why the subterfuge? It only made sense if… “So, zephyr spore duty,” a voice said behind Tress. “I wondered who the Dougs would force to do it, now that Weev is dead.” Tress turned to see the lanky, sharp-nosed woman with the short hair who had been talking to Fort earlier. Ann, the ship’s carpenter. Every ship needs a good carpenter. Oh, a sprouter can patch up a hull with a quick burst of spores—but silver erodes even fully hardened roseite over time. Doesn’t take a man long at sea to start contemplating how thin the barrier is between him and certain death. Just a plank. If you ever want to have a good face-to-face with your mortality, you’ll find the opportunity on the deck of a ship at night, staring at the endless darkness beyond you—when you realize the darkness beneath is somehow even more heavy, more vast, and more terrifying. That’s when you realize that having a good carpenter on board is worth paying them a double share of wages. In fact, it’s quite the steal. “I don’t mind the duty,” Tress said, making another pouch. “I’d do it again if they asked.” Inwardly, she was uneasy with how Ann walked next to the cannon, trailing her fingers on the metal. She’d been talking to Fort about the cannonballs. What side was she on? How many sides were there? What had Tress gotten herself into? Sadly, she didn’t know the half of it yet. “Don’t say things like that, Tress,” Ann said. “Sailors don’t volunteer for duty. It’s downright untraditional.” “You know my name?” Tress said. “Things get around on a ship,” Ann replied. “I’m Ann. Ship’s carpenter. Assistant cannonmaster.” Assistant to Laggart? Tress licked her lips, nervous—then stopped. Licking anything was not a good idea when handling spores. She made another pouch. Had Ann seen her find the hidden chamber? “What do you think?” Ann said, settling on a box nearby, a hand on one of her pistols as if taking comfort in it. “You’re a pirate now, Tress. An unexpected sideways turn in life.” “Better than an unexpected turn downward,” Tress said. “Aye,” Ann said. “That it is.” Tress wanted
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to ask more questions, but it felt like too much of an imposition. These people had spared her. Who was she to be making demands of them? So instead she said, “You all seem to be adjusting well to being pirates.” “Adjusting well? What kinda talk is that?” Ann leaned forward. “You want to know why, don’t you? How we ended up this way?” “I…yes, Miss Ann. I do.” “Why not ask?” “I didn’t want to be impolite.” “Impolite? To pirates?” Tress blushed. “I don’t mind talkin’ about it,” Ann said, staring out over the sea. Before them the ship’s prow cut a path through the spores. “The cap’n spun it well. We could either end up fighting in the king’s coming war, or we could strike out on our own, throwing away all the laws about writs and tariffs. Plus, the cap’n said we’d be doing a noble and important duty.” “…Important?” Tress asked. “A vital part of the economy.” “…Um, I see.” “Do you?” “Actually, no,” Tress admitted. “Then why not say so, girl?” Ann said, shaking her head. “Anyway, our job is important. You know how rich folk are—they make all this money off people sailing around, selling and buying for them. Then what’re they gonna do with the money? Lock it away. What good is locked away money? Ain’t nobody going to enjoy it if it’s trapped in a vault with Granna’s wedding ring. “So we’ve gotta take some. Inject it back into the economy, as a stimulus. To help local merchants, the small folk who are just tryin’ to live. We do an important service.” “By…stealing.” “Damn right.” Ann sat back, shifting her hand on her pistol. “Least, that’s what it was supposed to be like. We weren’t supposed to be deadrunners. I guess we all knew the risk. Didn’t expect to fail so hard on our first act of piracy though.” Tress cocked her head, barely resisting the urge to scratch at the place where the goggles met her face. Despite the silver on the deck, spores on her fingers could live long enough to do damage. “I’m…confused,” Tress said. “Deadrunner?” “You don’t know?” Ann said. “What kind of sailor are you?” “The kind that…doesn’t know what a deadrunner is?” She felt profoundly annoyed at being berated for withholding questions, then being mocked when she didn’t. “There are two varieties of pirates, Tress,” Ann explained. “There’s the ordinary kind, then there’s the deadrunners. Regular pirates rob, but don’t kill unless they’re fired upon. You sail well enough to catch the ship you’re chasing, and they surrender their ransom price. Then they sail away with their lives, while you sail away richer. “That’s how it’s supposed to work. It becomes a contest, see? A race, with a little extortion to keep it interestin’. The king’s marshals, they keep records. So long as you let folks go, so long as you don’t murder crews…well, if you get caught, they lock you up. But they don’t hang you.” “That sounds remarkably civilized,” Tress said. Ann shrugged. “Civilization exists because
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everyone wants to keep their innards in’r innards. You don’t punch a fellow when you first meet him, ’cuz you don’t wanna get punched each time you meet someone. The king knows this. So long as he gives pirates a reason not to go all the way, they’ll hedge. “Besides, who wouldn’t rather have a chase than a battle? The poor sods on merchant ships don’t want to lose their lives over their master’s money. The masters don’t want their ships being scuttled or stolen. And you don’t last long as a pirate if’n you’ve gotta wipe the deck with your blood every haul. Except, you know, if you kill someone by accident.” “Or an entire ship’s worth of people,” Tress said. Ann nodded. “Then you become a deadrunner. No mercy for you if caught. Even other pirates will hate you. Nobody will take crew from a deadrunner ship. You’re left to make your way, lonely as the single bean in a poor man’s soup.” By the moons, it made sense. Tress revised her opinion of Ann. That forlorn expression, that regret…it meant whatever conspiracy there had been to sink the smuggler ship, Ann hadn’t been part of it. Laggart had been though. And likely the captain. They’d wanted to become deadrunners. Hence the hidden cannonballs, the sinking of the Oot’s Dream. Why else would the captain leave one of the sailors alive to spread the word? Tress was so absorbed by these thoughts that she forgot herself and absently scratched at the itch by her goggles. She froze as she was doing it. Moonshadows. Well, at least— That was when Tress’s face exploded. Tress found herself lying on the deck, the goggles blown free of her face. What was that sound? Screams of pain? No. Laughter. Ann was laughing uproariously. Tress immediately put her hand up to her cheek. It was sore, but fortuitously still attached to her face. She’d gotten a mote or two of zephyr spores under the rim of her goggles, where they had touched a bead of sweat. Mercifully, that tiny amount of spores didn’t pack enough of a punch to kill her. “It isn’t funny,” Tress said, sitting up. (She was right. It was hilarious.) “Come on, spore girl,” Ann said, helping Tress up by the arm. “Let’s have the surgeon look you over.” She shouted toward the Doug who had made Tress do this work, and told him to clean up. Then Ann helped the disoriented Tress down to the middle deck. “You really work with that stuff?” Tress asked Ann. “As assistant cannonmaster?” “Well, when they let me,” Ann said. “Why don’t the cannons explode?” “They do. That’s what makes the cannonballs shoot out.” Tress determined to give that some thought later, as it didn’t make sense yet. Washing windows, it should be noted, is not an occupation that offers a thorough education in ballistics. Over from the mess, near the prow, was a door that had been closed when Tress had investigated earlier. Now Ann pushed it open and steered Tress inside. There
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she found a man dressed in a sharp suit of a cut she’d never before seen. It was somehow less ostentatious but more elegant than the uniforms the duke and Charlie had worn. Pure black, with pressed lines and no buttons on the front. He had jet-black hair, and features that looked too sharp to be real. Like he was a painting, or a drawing. His skin was an ashen grey, his eyes bloodred. If the underworld had legal counsel, it would have been this man. Tress should have been frightened of him, but instead she was awed. What was a creature like this doing on a pirate ship? Surely this was a divine being from beyond space, time, and reality. In a way, Tress was correct. And no, he still hasn’t given me my suit back. “My!” Dr. Ulaam said with a refined but excitable voice. “What have you brought me, Ann? Fresh meat?” “She was loading the zephyr pouches,” Ann explained, leading Tress to a seat at the side of the small chamber, “and some got underneath her goggles.” “Poor child,” Ulaam said. “New to the ship, hmmmm? You have very nice eyes.” “If he asks to buy them,” Ann whispered, “haggle. You can usually get double his first offer.” “My eyes?” Tress said, her voice rising. “He wants to take my eyes?” “After you are dead, naturally,” Ulaam said. This room was filled with cabinets and drawers. He unlatched one and took out a small jar of salve, then turned toward her. “Unless you’d rather do it now? I have several fine replacements I could offer. No? What about just one?” “What…what are you?” Tress asked. “He’s our zombie,” Ann said. “Such a crude term,” Ulaam replied. “And not terribly accurate, as I’ve told you.” “You ain’t got a heartbeat,” Ann said. “And your skin is cold as a wet fish.” “Both adaptations reduce my required caloric intake,” Ulaam said. “My method is efficient. I think everyone will be going around without a heart, once I solve the problem of how lacking one kills humans.” He offered Tress the salve. “Put this on your skin, child, and it will help with the pain.” Tress accepted it, and timidly put a dab on her finger. “She took it easily,” Ulaam said. “Is she brave or stupid?” “We haven’t figured out yet,” Ann said. “I…gather this must be some kind of hazing,” Tress said, “from the way Ann keeps grinning. So I might as well get it over with. If any of you wanted me dead, I’m as good as tossed overboard anyway.” “Ooo,” Ulaam said. “I like her. I’m going to have to keep an eye on you, girl. Here, hold this.” He dropped something into her other hand. It was a human eye. She squealed and dropped it, though Ulaam caught it with a quick snatch. “Be careful! It’s one of my favorites. Observe the deep blue coloring. It would look wonderful exchanged for your left eye—you’d be heterochromatic blue and green. Quite striking.” “I… No thank you?” “Ah
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well,” Ulaam said, putting the eye away. “Perhaps another time. Use the salve; there is no prank involved. I’m probably the least dangerous thing on this ship.” “You literally eat people, Ulaam,” Ann said. “Dead ones. My! How dangerous! Like the mighty worm of the earth or the bacteria of decomposition. They are my colleagues.” Hesitant, Tress touched the salve to her cheek. The pain vanished immediately. Startled by the efficacy, she rubbed it around her cheek. When Ulaam held up a hand mirror, her skin wasn’t even red, and there was no sign of a wound. “There’s a reason we keep ’im around,” Ann said. “Even if he’s weird as a two-headed snake.” “As the only true source of modern medicine in this backwater land,” he said, “I find your vivid simile inaccurate; incomplete axial bifurcation is far more likely in reptiles than other animals, so if you wish to call me odd, pick a two-headed bird or a mammal for full effect.” Both women stared at him, trying to parse that sentence. “I’ve eaten several two-headed snakes,” Ulaam noted. “And mimicked their forms. So rather than being as odd as one, I’ve literally been one. Alas, I couldn’t divide my consciousness and think twice as quickly. Wouldn’t that have been fun?” He took the salve back from Tress. “Anyway, try to avoid blowing yourself up in the future, hmmmm? It mangles the corpse and gives it a metallic taste.” If you’re wondering, I have it on good authority that Ulaam was enjoying himself during my regrettable period of indisposition. He made no move to break my curse, and instead wrote some extremely embarrassing accounts of my actions and sent them to several good friends of ours. Granted, the rules of the curse prevented me from giving any direct explanations of how to break it. But I really expected more from him. As it stands, after coming to find me and then discovering my…ailment, he’d just taken up residence on the ship. He’d always fancied becoming an explorer. “For the sense of adventure, hmmmm?” he’d said. The crew hadn’t known what to make of him at first. Captain Crow shot him a few times, an experience he reports as being “invigorating.” Members of his species are virtually impossible to kill. Other than the eating corpses part, they can be handy to have around—as the crew soon discovered. From then on, they simply dealt with him. Rather like a rash that occasionally rescues one from life-threatening wounds. He didn’t ask for payment aside from the occasional otherwise-useless corpse. It’s gruesome, yes, but you’ll find you’re able to put up with quite a bit of eccentricity in a person who can literally work miracles on your behalf. Tress—understandably left numb by her first interaction with the ship’s surgeon—was deposited on the deck near her bucket and brush. Ann went off to do some other work, so Tress—prodding at her completely healed cheek—decided to go back to scrubbing. She hadn’t made much progress before Huck came scampering up. “Something’s happening.” “What?” Tress asked. “An
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attack?” “No, no. See, you sent me away, so I figured I’d go sneak some food. I’d already eaten, but you never can have too much, right? I was down in the hold where—I’ll have you know—there’s nothing really accessible without nibbling through sacks. And people hate when we nibble through sacks. If they hate it so much, why not leave them untied for us? Then no sacks are harmed, you see, and—” “What did you want to tell me, Huck?” Tress asked. “What’s happening?” “Right, I was getting to that. Laggart was down there looking through the storage. And Tress, he fetched a couple of cannonballs. I saw him sneak them into his pack.” Interesting. It was time to test her theory. She positioned herself to scrub near the forward cannon station. Not too close, but close enough to watch. Then she became a waitress again for a short while, watching for Laggart. It didn’t take long. Laggart swooped over to the cannon and craned his long neck over the barrel, eyeing the bundles of spores. He eventually declared the work well done, praising the Dougs. At that moment they discovered the wonders of outsourcing: the luxury of taking all the credit, doing none of the work, yet reserving someone to blame just in case. Tress didn’t mind. She’d rather not have Laggart paying attention to her. The Dougs hopped off to other duties, and Laggart made quite the show of cleaning the cannon himself—something he never left to another’s care. Tress scrubbed the deck nearby, invisible in plain sight. Whenever Laggart turned her way, her head was inconspicuously down in her work. Yet she watched closely, and spotted it as he stealthily took a fist-size cannonball from his pack and hid it in the false bottom of the barrel. She had been right. He kept rigged cannonballs in the hidden compartment. Cannonballs designed to sink ships. But why? It was so much more dangerous to be deadrunners, and it denied them loot. Wasn’t that the one essential thing that defined pirates? Other than, you know, the boats and stuff? He wanted the crew to become deadrunners. Against their wishes or knowledge. Laggart finished his work, shouted at a few nearby Dougs for being lazy, then hauled his pack to his shoulder. He strutted off toward the captain’s cabin, where Crow let him in—and posted a sailor at the door before closing it. The heavyset Doug didn’t look much like a guard, but the way he lingered reminded Tress of how Brick’s cousin stood watch by the tavern door on nights when people were expected to get rowdy. “I need to know what they’re talking about in there,” Tress said. “Yeah, that would be great, wouldn’t it?” Huck said from her shoulder. “I’ll bet it’s very secretive.” “I need someone to slip in,” Tress said. “Maybe we could ask one of the Dougs?” Huck said. “Someone,” Tress said, “who is small, quick, and who won’t be noticed listening.” “Dang,” Huck said. “Don’t know if the Dougs will be sneaky enough. Have
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you heard the way they tromp around on the deck? I was trying to sleep last night, and I’d swear they have lead in their shoes. It…” He trailed off, noticing her glaring at him. “Oooooohhhhh. Rat. Right, right. Got it.” He hopped off her shoulder and scuttled over to the gunwale, then scrambled along it in the shadows over to the captain’s cabin. The Doug watching didn’t notice as Huck slipped along a small ledge on the outside of the ship and went in the captain’s window. Perhaps you’re wondering why Huck had so quickly fallen in with Tress. Well, there are a lot of things I could tell you here—but suffice it to say that in the short life of Huck the rat, every human he’d met had tried to kill, capture, or sell him. Every human but Tress. He didn’t know a lot about people, having spent most of his life isolated—but he did like Tress. He would rather she not die. So, spying it was. Tress began scrubbing furiously to work out her anxiety. Minutes passed with the weight of hours, as she worried about sending Huck into danger to satisfy her curiosity. That wasn’t something she would normally have done. Life as a pirate was already affecting her. Yet Charlie was out there somewhere, afraid, hurting. She had to find a way to escape, then continue her quest. So maybe learning to impose on people a little was all right. “Hey,” Huck said, scampering across the railing next to her, “you got anything to eat? Spying is hungry work.” Tress glared at him as her stomach growled. “Just asking,” Huck said. “Moons, girl, no need to look at me like I ate the center of the loaf and left you the heels.” “Did you hear anything?” she asked. Huck twitched his nose in a way he seemed to think she would understand, then he hopped down and scurried over to a more sheltered section of the deck. She followed, her back to the Dougs. To anyone watching, she’d simply be doing her thing, scrubbing away. They wouldn’t be able to see Huck. “All right,” the rat said from the deck in front of her. “I’ll tell you what they said. Let me get into character.” “…Character?” Tress said. Huck went up on his hind legs, holding his little ratty paws before himself with his nose up in the air. “I am Captain Crow,” he said in a surprisingly good approximation of her aristocratic accent. “Hip, hop, do as I say. My, this canteen water is tasty. Laggart, what news of the cannon? Is everything ready?” Tress waited, her head cocked. “You be Laggart,” Huck hissed. “I wasn’t there! I don’t know what he said.” “You’ll do fine.” Huck waved his paw at her. “Go ahead. Be Laggart.” “Uh…the cannons are…ready?” “Voice needs more crust to it,” Huck whispered. “And stretch out your neck like his. It will help you get in character.” “But—” “Excellent, Laggart,” Huck said in his captain voice. “But I have unfortunate news via
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a raven from my contact in Kingsport. The remnants of the ship we sank have been found, but there were no survivors, just a single corpse. That man we left alive appears to have rejected my bountiful generosity and done me the insult of dying from wounds we didn’t realize he had.” “She said that?” Tress whispered. “Those exact words?” “It’s a dramatic recreation,” Huck hissed. “What, you think I wrote it down? With these?” He waved his paws at her. “That’s as close as I can remember. Now do Laggart’s part.” “Um…that’s sad?” Tress said. “Tress, that’s not what he said. He said, ‘All that work for nothing? We’ll have to sink another then!’” He waved a paw for her to continue. Tress sighed. “All that work for nothing. We’ll have to sink another then.” “Moonshadows, could you put less emotion into it?” Huck said. “I feel like you’re not taking your role seriously.” “I don’t—” “This is a problem, Laggart,” Huck said in his captain voice, falling to all fours and stalking back and forth with his nose in the air. “The crew is upset. I’m worried about some of them running off.” “But why?” Tress said. “We’re getting there,” Huck said. “Look, why don’t I just do Laggart’s part too? You take a break. Memorize your lines next time, all right?” “But—” Huck stretched out his neck and spoke with a creepy, scratchy voice. “As well you should, Captain,” he said. “Fort is brewing trouble, and maybe Salay too. We need blood binding them to this ship if we’re going to do what you want.” Huck moved over to be the captain again, standing up on his hind legs with his front paws on the gunwale, as if mimicking the captain gazing out the window. “The crew will never follow us to dangerous seas unless they have no other choice. Unless they’re desperate. We will sink another ship, Laggart, and leave a couple sailors alive this time.” Huck turned to her and settled into a more ratlike posture. “And that’s it.” “Dangerous seas,” Tress whispered. The Verdant Sea was one of the safer ones, but apparently Captain Crow wanted to leave such spores and head toward a place the crew wouldn’t go unless they had no other choice. “So, what do you think?” Huck asked. “She’s got some kind of special curse for the crew, eh? Blood binding them to the ship?” “No curse,” Tress whispered, continuing to scrub so she wouldn’t appear suspicious. “But Laggart said—” “It was a metaphor, Huck,” Tress said. “Don’t you see? The captain isn’t certain of her crew’s loyalty. She wants to sail dangerous seas, but is worried they’ll desert her if she tries to make them do that. So…” “So she turns them to piracy, then ‘accidentally’ sinks a few ships,” Huck said. “Making them into deadrunners. Chased by the law, ostracized by other pirates, they’ll have no choice but to follow her orders.” Huck twitched his nose, which seemed to be his version of nodding in agreement. “I can see that.
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Yeah, you’re probably right. You…look morose though.” “Not morose,” Tress said. “Merely distracted.” “Why?” “Because,” she said, “I’ve just figured out a way for us to escape this ship.” Captain Crow soon emerged from her cabin, leaving Laggart to strut across to the bow while she climbed up to the quarterdeck. Tress went down to refill her bucket and left Huck to forage for some more food. Returning to the upper deck gave her an excuse to reset her location, so she moved to the quarterdeck, near where the captain stood next to Salay—the helmswoman who had traded Fort those earrings earlier. Tress didn’t want to act suspicious, so she didn’t execute her plan at first. She scrubbed, feeling the boat rock upon the spores. Listening to the Dougs calling to each other and the planks creaking. There’s a certain freedom to the sounds of a ship at sea. The feeling of motion, of going somewhere. On an ocean—even a spore ocean, so long as the seethe holds up—it’s hard to sit still. You’re either bending the waves and wind to your will, or you’re being bent to theirs. Usually it’s a careful grapple between the two. As Tress stood up to stretch, she gazed across the vibrant green sea. It was odd because the moon was in the wrong place—always before it had been almost overhead, but they’d sailed far enough that it was several degrees lower. She couldn’t help but remark upon the sea’s beauty. Spores, vibrant in the sunlight, shimmered as they seethed. An endless expanse of lush death, waiting to explode with life. Like with the zephyr spores earlier, this beauty transfixed her. Our minds want dangerous things to be ugly, yet Tress found those rolling waves inviting. In the moment, she imagined those rippling spores upon her skin, but rather than cringing, she was curious. Danger doesn’t make a thing less beautiful—in fact, there’s a magnifying influence. Like how a candle seems brightest on the darkest night. Deadly beauty is the starkest variety. And you will never find a murderess more intoxicating, more entrancing, than the sea. “North,” the captain said, holding up a compass. “North, Salay. Toward the Seven Straits.” “Into the shipping lanes?” Salay asked. “Best place to find our next target,” the captain said, tucking away her compass. Tress sensed her opportunity. She settled down, scrubbing hard, then muttered, “You’ll kill more, will you?” She heard the captain shift behind her. Tress kept her head lowered. After a moment though, she muttered, “They were good people you killed. Poor Kaplan. And Marple. And Mallory. Fed to the spores.” The deck creaked as Captain Crow stepped over. This was a dangerous ploy, but…well, Tress was surrounded by pirates sailing the spore sea. She hadn’t grown up knowing danger, but they were quickly becoming acquainted. “You muttering something, girl?” Crow asked. “Ungrateful, maybe, for the kindness this here crew showed you?” Tress froze as if frightened, and dropped her brush as she looked up. “Captain! I didn’t know you… I mean…” “Are you ungrateful?” Crow asked.
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“I appreciate my life,” Tress whispered, her eyes down. “But?” “But that ship carried my family, Captain. I loved them.” “You’re a royal inspector. Why were you traveling with your family?” “That?” Tress scoffed. “An inspector left this coat at a tavern we stopped by, and I started wearing it because it made my family laugh. And now…now they’re all dead…” She let it linger. Then she glanced up and saw thoughtfulness on the captain’s expression. Understanding. No, you didn’t kill everyone on the Oot’s Dream, Tress thought. You left one alive. And if she were to escape, then tell everyone how the Crow’s Song killed her family… The captain turned toward Salay and unscrewed her canteen. According to what Tress had overheard from the crew, it was common water, which explained why the woman wasn’t drunk all the time. “Changed my mind, Helmswoman,” Crow said, then took a drink. “Take us east, toward Shimmerbay. We should restock on water.” “If you say so, Captain,” Salay said. “I thought we had enough though.” “Never can have enough water,” the captain said. “Can’t let my canteen go dry, can we? Besides, we’ve got rats on board. Need to pick up a ship’s cat.” Quick as that, Salay called orders to the crew in the rigging and spun the ship’s wheel, and they turned toward freedom. Tress felt a surge of excitement. Now, most people would agree that humans are not telepathic. We can’t directly send our thoughts or emotions into the minds of others. Nevertheless, you can hear my story and imagine the things I describe—the same as I picture them in my own mind. What is that, if not a form of telepathy? Beyond that, there are those among us who have the uncanny ability to read another’s emotions. Not through magic, or mystical Connection, or any such figgldygrak. No, they are simply students of human nature. They can pick up on people’s moods through subtle cues of body language—in the way their eyes move, the way their muscles twitch. Some of these are doctors interested in healing the mind. Others find their way to the clergy, in search of ways to help the human soul. Then there are the ones like Captain Crow, for whom their ability to read others provides a…different kind of advantage. That moment on the deck, a part of Crow’s mind picked up that Tress was excited. That Tress was happy the ship had turned toward Shimmerbay. Crow wasn’t conscious of what she knew, or how she knew it, but—like one might feel an oncoming bout of indigestion—she knew that she wasn’t pleased and that Tress was the reason. If you want to ruin Captain Crow’s day, point out that she made someone happy. If you want to ruin her entire week, point out that she did it by accident. Crow didn’t reconsider her decision to sail for the port. She wasn’t the type to second-guess herself. Instead Crow just pulled her foot back and planted a solid be-booted kick right in Tress’s stomach. The unexpected blow
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left Tress groaning, tears leaking from her eyes as she curled up in a puddle of soapy water. Crow sauntered off, whistling casually and screwing closed the top on her canteen. She was, it might be noted, a perfect example of why the word jerk needs so many off-color synonyms. One could exhaust all available options, invent a few apt new ones, and still not be able to completely describe her. Truly an inspiration to the vulgar poet. Salay now, she was another story. People considered the short helmswoman stern, but she’d been on the business end of a few unearned kicks herself. After barely a moment of thought, she locked the ship’s wheel in place—something she wasn’t supposed to do save for emergencies—and stepped over to check on Tress. “Hey,” Salay said softly, rolling Tress to her side. “Let me feel at it. If you’ve cracked a rib, we’ll want to take you to visit the ship’s surgeon.” “No!” Tress said. “He wants to cut pieces of me off!” “Nonsense. Ulaam wouldn’t hurt a dove.” “…He wouldn’t?” “Nope. They don’t have hands he can embalm.” She winked at Tress, who—after a moment—managed a grin despite the pain. Salay prodded at Tress’s lower ribs and listened to Tress explain what hurt and what didn’t. That persuaded both that the kick hadn’t broken anything other than Tress’s mood, so Salay returned to her post and unlocked the wheel. She continued to watch Tress sitting in a morose lump on the deck. Eventually Salay called, “You ever worked a ship’s wheel before?” Tress hesitantly stood and looked over at her, questioningly. Salay stepped back and gestured to the wheel. Now, I know that on your planet, steering a ship isn’t that big a deal. In many places, they’ll hand the ship’s wheel to any kid with a standard number of fingers and a habit of leaving at least one out of their nose for extended stretches of time. But on the spore seas they treat it differently. Guiding the ship is a privilege, and the helmsperson is an officer tasked with a serious duty. So even if Tress had often been on ships—as she’d been pretending—it was likely she wouldn’t ever have taken the wheel. Awed, she stepped over, double-checking with Salay before fixing her hands on the wheel in the positions the helmswoman indicated. “Good,” Salay said. “Now, hold it firm. You feel those vibrations? That’s the seethe shaking the rudder. You need to be careful to not let that shake the entire ship. Hold the wheel firm, and take any movements slowly and smoothly.” “And if the seethe stops?” Tress asked. “Turn the wheel to straighten out the rudder, so the spores don’t rip it free. But again, you need to be careful. A sudden motion from the helmswoman can send sailors tumbling from the rigging.” Tress nodded, wondering if maybe it wasn’t the best idea to entrust such an important duty to her. Salay, however, was a little like Captain Crow—in that she was the opposite of the captain in the
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way that only someone very similar could be. Salay also had an instinct for what people were feeling, and she’d noted Tress’s dedication to her scrubbing. A woman who did such a simple duty with exactness…well, in Salay’s experience that sort of thing scaled upward. Same way you would be more likely to lend your best flute to someone who treated their own battered one with respect. Tress held firmly to the wheel, feeling the chaotic churn of the spores beneath travel up the tiller ropes, through the wood, and into her arms. She felt a deeper connection to the sea when standing there, and—if not a power over it—an ability to ride it. There was strength in being the one who steers. It was a freedom she had never before known, and had never before realized she needed. One of the great tragedies of life is knowing how many people in the world are made to soar, paint, sing, or steer—except they never get the chance to find out. Whenever one does discover a moment of joy, beauty enters the world. Human beings, we can’t create energy; we can only harness it. We can’t create matter; we can only shape it. We can’t even create life; we can only nurture it. But we can create light. This is one of the ways. The effervescence of purpose discovered. Then Tress saw the captain stalking across the deck, and the pain in her stomach—including some not directly caused by the kick—returned. “Won’t the captain be mad if she sees me up here?” “She might,” Salay said. “She couldn’t do anything about it though. Traditions as old as the seas say the helmsperson decides who steers the ship. Not even Crow would dare imply otherwise. If I wanted, I could keep the wheel from her.” As if to prove her point, Salay showed Tress the ship’s compass and sky chart, both kept in a cabinet next to the helm. She had Tress correct the ship’s course by a few degrees, taking them to the east of a group of large rocks jutting from the ocean ahead. “It’s the helmswoman’s job,” Salay said, her expression distant, “to protect the ship. Keep a steady hand, steer clear of danger. Out of storms, away from spore explosions. Keep them safe somehow…” Tress followed Salay’s gaze. She was staring down at Captain Crow. “She is pushing the crew,” Tress said, cautiously choosing her words, “to go further than they want.” “We all decided this together,” Salay said. “We’re responsible for our actions.” “She’s more reckless than the rest of you,” Tress said. “She…” Tress almost explained what she’d discovered about the captain and Laggart, but thought better of it. Making such an accusation didn’t seem prudent. She barely knew Salay or anyone else on this crew. “Crow is a harsh one,” Salay said. “That’s true. That might be what this crew needs though. Now that we’re deadrunners.” Those were Salay’s words, at least. The way she glared at the captain wasn’t so respectful. “I don’t understand why you’ve
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all done this,” Tress said softly. “Becoming…what you have.” “It’s a fair question,” Salay replied. “I guess we all have our own reasons. For me, it was either this or give up sailing. Maybe I should have done that. It’s just…there’s something about standing on a ship, holding the wheel. Something special. Moons, I sound like a lunatic talking like that. I—” “No,” Tress said. “I understand.” Salay regarded her, then nodded. “Anyway, I have someone to find out here on these seas. Sooner or later I’ll sail into a port and discover my father is there. I can pay his debts and bring him home. Surely it’s the next port…” She lifted her compass, then stared off toward the horizon. Tress felt a sudden stab of shame, though she couldn’t place the reason. Yes, she understood something in Salay’s voice—that longing for someone in trouble. That determination to do something about it since no one else would. But there was no reason to feel ashamed of— The wheel lurched in her hands, and the entire ship began to shake. Tress gripped tight, then—terrified she’d drop the sailors from the rigging—eased the wheel to the right, straightening the rudder. The Crow’s Song stopped quivering, and—as Tress fought the wheel—slowly glided to a halt. The seethe had stilled. Sweating, gasping, Tress looked to Salay. The helmswoman, ever stoic, merely nodded. “That could have been worse,” she said. Then, noticing how the sudden halt had panicked Tress, she added, “Maybe go take a rest.” Laggart called for the afternoon watch to go for dinner while they waited out the stilling. Not wanting to draw the captain’s ire any further, Tress returned to her work, scrubbing while everyone else relaxed. As always, she spent the time thinking. I would call the gift of thoughtfulness a double-edged sword, but I’ve always found that metaphor lacking. The vast majority of swords have two edges, and I’ve not found them to be any more likely to cut their owner than the single-edged variety. It is the sharpness of the wielder, and not the sharpness of the sword, that foreshadows mishap. Tress’s mind was sharp as a sword, which in this moment was unfortunate. Because while she’d identified a path to freedom, she couldn’t help listening in as Ann leaned against the mast nearby and spoke to Laggart. “The one who loaded spores for your cannon?” Ann said, thumbing over her shoulder at Tress. “It wasn’t the Dougs. It was her. Thought you should know.” Please don’t stick up for me, Tress thought, feeling another stab of guilt. Please don’t remind me how nice you are. Night fell and the seethe began again, sending the ship back on course toward its port. Tress tried to scrub away her frustration, but guilt does not clean as easily as spore scum. And soon I came ambling up to her. “Your coat is nice,” I whispered to her, “but it would look better if you painted half of it orange.” “Orange?” Tress said. “That…sounds like it would clash.” “Clashing is good fashion,
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trust me. Oh, Fort says to go see him for food.” I winked. “I need to go nibble on my toes for a bit. They taste like fate.” Tress tried to ignore the offer, but soon Huck came bouncing up to her. “Hey. You hungry? I’m hungry. We gonna go try to get some food or what?” With a sigh, Tress let him climb onto her shoulder, then trudged down to the quartermaster’s office. There, by the light of a small lantern, Fort handed her another plate of food. It didn’t taste quite so offensive as last time—but perhaps that was because so many of her taste buds had committed ritual suicide following the apocalyptic breakfast. Tress sat on a stool in front of Fort, who insisted—via his incredible writing board—that he wasn’t doing her a favor, and this was merely a trade. Tress saw through it. She saw it in the way he refilled her cup (the same bronze one she had used earlier) when it got low, and how he had saved her a bit of cake for dessert. It was awful, old and crusty like the rest, but the thought meant something. Moons, it hurt. Not the food; her own betrayal. She’d known these people only a day, but she still smiled when Ulaam sauntered in and haggled for the gull bones from dinner, which Fort had saved for him. It was not the haggling itself that she smiled at, but the fond way the two sported during it. This ship was a family. A doomed family led by a mother who didn’t care for them. Tress had to do something. “Fort,” she said, looking down at her plate and pushing around the last bit of what she hoped was gull meat. “I don’t think Captain Crow has the crew’s best interests at heart.” Fort froze, holding a cup he’d been polishing. A nice pewter mug, with delightful nicks along the rim from repeated use. Tress didn’t know if it was from the seventh-century Horgswallow tradition or simply a close copy, but it was an excellent specimen. “I…I listened in on her,” Tress said. “When she and Laggart—” That’s enough, Fort wrote. Anything more will get you tossed overboard, Tress. No speaking mutiny. “But Fort,” she said, lowering her voice, “you were worried about the cannonballs, and I discovered—” He slapped the counter to cut her off. Then he very deliberately wrote in large letters, NO MORE. Moonshadows…he looked terrified, broken fingers trembling as he tapped on his board. Captain visited, asked why I was being so nosy. Shouldn’t have said anything. Don’t you say anything. It’s too dangerous. SHE’S too dangerous. He erased those words quickly, glancing toward the door, sweating as he shook the board and made certain nothing incriminating remained. Finish your food, Fort wrote. “Why are you all so scared of her?” Tress said. “She’s just one person.” Fort’s eyes widened. You don’t know, he wrote. Of course you don’t. And I won’t say; not my place. But she could kill every one of us,
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Tress. Easy as that. So keep your tongue and LET IT DROP. He punctuated that by putting the board down and turning away from her. So much for warning the crew about the captain’s plans. She forced herself to eat her last bite of the meal, then slipped out of the quartermaster’s office. She lethargically walked back onto the upper deck, her belly full, her feet feeling like they were chained. “Moons,” Huck whispered from her shoulder. “We need to get away from here before the place turns nasty. How are we going to escape? You never told me.” In response, Tress raised a finger and pointed. The Verdant Moon dumped spores far in the distance, but was close enough to illuminate the deck with a green glow. Ahead of the ship, lights dappled a large shadow. Land, and the port city of Shimmerbay. Freedom. “I could sneak away no problem,” Huck said. “But they’ll be watching you. Captain will set guards, Tress. They won’t let you go.” “Ah, but they will,” she said, sick. The captain ordered the crew to quarters for the night, saying they were making a quick stop and anyone who tried to sneak off would be flogged. Then she set Laggart on watch. But Tress slept on the deck as she had the night before—and with no sailing to be done, there was no one to trip over her. Around midnight, Laggart wandered off to use the privy. He made certain to clomp loudly on the steps, to wake Tress—who wasn’t asleep, though she appreciated the gesture. She stood up, quietly gathered up her sack of cups, then crossed the empty deck. “Huh,” Huck said. “If they didn’t want anyone getting off…why did they run a gangplank down to the dock?” “Because,” Tress whispered, standing there, “Crow wants me to spread the story of the Oot’s Dream sinking. Remember, the captain wants this crew to be deadrunners. If I am allowed to slip away, she presumes I’ll tell everyone. “Then the crew will be trapped beneath the captain’s will. They’re too afraid of her to mutiny, and as long as they’re too frightened of the law to escape, they’ll have to do what she says. Sail dangerous spores, essentially as her slaves.” “Poor lunatics,” Huck said. “Well, let’s get away before we end up like them.” Tress hesitated at the top of the gangplank. Shimmerbay was a good distance from Kingsport, but she could make her way there. Continue her plan of figuring out what the Sorceress wanted for Charlie, then find a way to free him. “Tress,” Huck said, “I can’t help noticing that you aren’t moving.” “I should stay,” she whispered. “And help the crew.” “What?” Huck exclaimed. “No, you shouldn’t.” “They’ve been so kind to me.” “You barely even met them! You don’t owe them anything.” “I saved you when I’d barely met you,” Tress said. “I didn’t owe you anything.” “Well, I mean…” The rat rubbed his paws. “Yeah, but…well… Huh.” She didn’t know if she could rescue Charlie. She wanted to so
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badly, but his pain—though poignant to her—wasn’t something she could immediately prevent. The people of this crew were different. “Maybe if I can help the crew,” Tress said, “they’ll take me to the Midnight Sea to get Charlie.” “They’re pirates.” “They’re a family,” Tress said. A plan started to form. A way she could stop Crow in secret. “And I…Huck, I need to do what I can. For them.” Decision made, a weight came off her. She wasn’t abandoning Charlie. But this was something she needed to do. “Oh boy,” Huck said as Tress turned around and walked back to her sleeping spot. “You should run,” Tress said to him. “Get away. I won’t blame you, Huck. It’s the smart thing to do.” He clicked his teeth together, and she thought maybe that was a ratty version of a shrug. “I have a good feeling about you,” he said. “But, I mean, are you sure about this?” Of course I’m not, Tress thought. I haven’t been sure of anything since I left the Rock. Something flared in the night. A match. Tress felt a spike of alarm as she saw the light illuminate a figure sitting on the steps up to the quarterdeck. Captain Crow, her face outlined in orange as she lit her pipe. Had she seen? Had she heard Tress talking to Huck? The captain puffed on her pipe and waved out the match, plunging her face into darkness—backlit by the bright, moon-filled sky. “Captain?” Tress asked. “You should run, girl,” Crow said. “You’ve proven yourself these last two days, and I judge you worthy of life. So go ahead. Slip away into the night.” “I…” Tress took a deep breath. “I want to join your crew.” “Join us?” Crow laughed. “Just earlier today you were cursing us for having killed your family.” “I lied, Captain. I wanted to make you feel sorry for me, so you’d take pity and feed me. I know you saw through that. Your kick proved it. I shouldn’t have lied.” “Then that wasn’t your family on the ship?” “I was a stowaway,” Tress said. “Didn’t belong there any more than I belong in Shimmerbay. I think I might belong here.” Crow didn’t reply at first. She unscrewed the top of her canteen, a rattling sound in the night. Tress thought she could track the captain’s thoughts. If Tress hadn’t lost anyone, if she wasn’t angry at the crew… Captain Crow stood up, a shadow in the night. “Run along anyway. No place for you here. We don’t need you scrubbing the deck all day, underfoot. I save that job for punishment, and with you doing it, you’ve taken away one of my tools for ship discipline. Everyone on this ship must have a place, and you have none. Unless you’d like to take the role of our anchor.” Crow turned toward her cabin, smoke drifting up from her pipe. Tress nearly ran off as she’d been told. And yet… A piece of her hated being bullied. Hated it enough to overcome her reluctance to
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impose. She’d hated how the duke bullied Charlie. She’d hated how the inspectors bullied the dockworkers. And she hated it more here, facing down a woman who thought she could do whatever she wanted, to whomever she wanted. “You don’t have a ship’s sprouter,” Tress said. Captain Crow froze at the door to her cabin. “He’s dead,” Tress continued. “You need someone for the job, but the Dougs won’t do it. Otherwise you’d have pressed one of them into it by now. They made me fill the zephyr pouches. They’re frightened of spores.” “And you aren’t?” Crow asked from the darkness. “Of course I am,” Tress said. “But I figure a healthy respect for them helps a sprouter stay alive.” Silence. Crow was a shadow in the night, watching her, judging her, smoke puffing up into the emerald sky. “Aye,” Crow said. “You’re right on that. Suppose maybe there is a place for you here. You did cross the spores on foot. Took a zephyr explosion to the face. Still willing to work with spores, eh? Yes indeed…I could make use of you. In fact, I might have the perfect place for you.” Tress frowned to herself. Were they participating in the same conversation? “Welcome to the Crow’s Song then, ship’s sprouter,” the captain said, pushing into her cabin. “You’ll forfeit your share of loot from our first three plunders, but can take an officer’s portion after that. Also, you can’t eat with the others. Go to Fort for leftovers. Sprouters are a strange lot, and I don’t want you getting spores into the food.” “I… Yes, Captain.” “And don’t lie to me again. Or we’ll be finding out what happens to a human when they swallow a pouch of zephyr spores. Dr. Ulaam has always wondered.” Crow raised her canteen to her lips as she shut her cabin door. Knees soft as lard, Tress flopped down on the deck, then pulled her red inspector’s coat tight. She was terrified by what she’d done, but determined. She knew it was right; she felt it. For better or worse, Tress was a pirate now. The next day, Captain Crow woke Tress with a shout. That should have been Tress’s first clue that something was odd, as it didn’t involve kicking. Crow passed up opportunities to cause physical pain about as often as banks provide free samples. Instead Crow led Tress through the middle deck to a room with a very large padlock on the door. The type you use to make a statement. “You really aren’t afraid of spores, girl?” Crow said as she counted over the keys on her keyring. “I said that I am afraid, Captain. It’s just that lately, everything and everyone seems inclined to try to kill me. So I guess spores are simply one more, no more notable than the others.” “No more notable?” Crow said, selecting the correct key. “Well, that’s an encouraging attitude. Encouraging indeed, my red-coated sprouter.” The click of the key in the lock had an ominous tone. The sound of a trap being
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sprung. Crow removed the key from her ring and handed it to Tress. “This will be yours now, girl.” Tress took it, but had not missed that the ring held a second key identical to this one. Crow pushed through the door, and Tress glanced down the hall to where several Dougs were watching and whispering to one another. When the door opened, they stepped backward. Bracing herself, Tress followed Crow into the room. It did not seem so fearsome as to warrant such a reaction from the Dougs. The small chamber, longer than it was wide, had a single porthole at the end looking out at the sea. Spores churned up from the ship’s passing, occasionally rising to cover the window, briefly plunging the room into darkness. It had a bunk on one end that was pure luxury to Tress, with a blanket, a mattress, and a pillow. Sure, the mattress looked lumpy, the pillow was small, and the blanket likely hadn’t been washed since the invention of vowels. But when you’ve been sleeping on the deck, you learn to grade on a curve. Along the wall opposite the bunk was a small worktable. Above it, a set of drawers was built into the wall. The only other item of note was the large mirror hanging above the table, giving the room an open feeling—and revealing to Tress exactly how much of a mess her hair was. It evoked the impression of an eldritch horror escaping from its long slumber to stretch tentacles in all directions, disintegrating reality, seeking the lives of virgins, and demanding a sacrifice of a hundred bottles of expensive conditioner. Crow stepped over to a door nestled in the corner, near the head of the bunk. She pulled that open and gestured inside, revealing a stall—barely tall enough to stand up in, with a floor that lowered two feet down into a basin. With a drain? And a spigot high on the wall? A bath? If the bunk was luxury, the idea of a bath was paradise. “We keep that spigot hooked to a barrel filled with water,” Crow said. “Let us know when you want it refilled. Weev always needed a lot of it for his experiments.” “…Experiments?” “With spores,” Crow said, sighing. “You’ll have to keep up, girl, if you’re going to train as our sprouter. Any time you work with spores, do it in this chamber unless you get specific permission from me. I’d even prefer you fill the zephyr spore charges for the cannons in here.” “I understand,” Tress said. “Be sure you do,” Crow said. “Your entire chamber is reinforced with aluminum, but there’s a silver lining beyond in case something breaks through. Despite all those protections, you could rip my ship apart if you’re careless.” Tress nodded. “You have no idea, do you?” Crow said. “What you’re doing? What will be expected of you? You have no clue how dangerous your job will be. Do you really want to go through with this?” “Do I get to sleep in that bed?”
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“Yes.” “Then I’m in.” Crow smiled. It would have been less unnatural to see those shining teeth and curling lips on an actual crow. “I’ll send Ulaam to brief you. But before you grow too fond of your new accommodations, be sure to have a look at the floor.” The captain sauntered off, taking a swig from her canteen. Tress sat on the mattress, trying to discern what the captain had meant by that last comment. The floor looked normal. Wooden planks, though a little dusty, since it didn’t appear that anyone had cleaned the room since Weev’s death. As she considered it, that troubled her. Why hadn’t anyone claimed this room? A bed, a mirror, and running water? The moment Weev died, the sailors should have been fighting for a chance to… Then it struck her. There was no silver in the floor. She would have seen it sooner, if she’d been more experienced with ship life. Except for one little section near the cannon, all decks—save the hold—of the Crow’s Song were inset with silver. This was a fine, expensive merchant vessel (they could even afford some aluminum, which wasn’t as costly at this point as it had once been, but still pricey), and it was built to keep its occupants comfortable and—most importantly—safe. Except in here. Where the sprouter needed to work with spores. Tress glanced at the porthole, and the verdant spores rolling past. Each time the ship surged in the sea and the room plunged into darkness, her heart sped up a little. Moons. No wonder no one else had wanted the room. You’d have to be insane to sleep in here. Huck found her snoring softly a short time later. One shouldn’t blame her. Sleeping on the deck hadn’t really involved much sleeping. “Tress?” Huck whispered. “What’s this? Your own room?” She sat up groggily. “Yup. It’s a deathtrap, but a comfortable one. Where have you been?” “They got a cat, Tress,” Huck grumbled, eyeing the door. “An actual cat. This is an insult of the gravest kind. As in the kind that leads to my grave…” “Stick close to me,” Tress said. “I’ll try to keep you away from it.” Huck shivered visibly. “I hate cats,” he whispered. “Plus, how stupid do you have to be to get a cat because of one rat? Like, what is going to eat more of your food? Me, or the thing ten times my weight? Idiot humans. Er. Other humans. Not named Tress.” “I’m my own brand of idiot, Huck,” she said. “Considering I’m still on this ship.” With a sigh, she heaved herself off the bed and went above to fetch her sack of cups. She returned to the room, where she began arranging the cups on her worktable, thinking of the stories Charlie had told her when she’d shown him each one. She felt like a traitor. Staying and helping people she barely knew? Instead of hunting for a way to save him? She whispered prayers to the moons as she arranged the cups, and promised
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herself that she would find a way. If she could help this crew, and they weren’t willing to take her to the Midnight Sea in return, maybe they could still help her in some other way? Like gathering money for the ransom? That made her feel sick. She didn’t want to rob people to save Charlie. In that moment, holding the cup with the butterfly, she acknowledged something. She could never pay a ransom—and she wouldn’t resort to piracy to do it. She’d have to find some other way to save Charlie. But how? What could she do? As she was contemplating this, fighting to keep her tears in check, a peppy voice spoke from the doorway. “Need a hand? Hmmmmm?” “You didn’t literally bring me a hand, did you, Ulaam?” Tress asked. Ulaam furtively tucked one arm behind his back. “Would I be so crass, Miss Tress?” “…Yes? It’s why I asked?” The ashen-skinned man (person? thing?) grinned and stepped into the room. Behind him, I peeked in—but as Tress didn’t have any marmosets, I wasn’t interested at the moment. “You know about all of this, Doctor?” Tress said, waving to the small room with the basin and the spigot. “The captain said it was for experiments.” “Yes, Weev loved the experiment of ‘How can I con everyone else into letting me take warm baths?’ They keep the water barrel out in the sun; while I doubt your washing will be toasty, you also won’t be freezing any bits off.” He glanced at her. “If you do, be sure to save them for me, hmmmm?” “So it is a bath,” Tress said. “Well, Weev did need a room where he could manipulate spores—and sometimes activate them—without posing too much danger to the crew. That required a ceramic basin that would hold water. He merely extrapolated. He was a cunning fellow. Except that part at the end.” Ulaam shook his head. “What a waste of a corpse.” “Captain says I’ll need to take on some of Weev’s duties if I’m going to stay on the ship. Was there more than the work with the zephyr spores?” “You’ll want to practice with roseite, for sealing breaches in emergencies,” Ulaam said. “And in growing verdant without breaking anything, as the vines can be emergency food. Yes, they are edible. I suppose anything is, if you’re optimistic enough!” “I’m optimistic!” I said, looking in again. “I once ate an entire rock. Had to fight off its family first though.” I growled and wandered away. Tress mostly missed what I said, focused as she was on my ailments. “Do you know what his…issue is, Doctor?” she asked. “Hoid has too many issues to count,” Ulaam said, poking through the drawers above her table. “I wouldn’t trouble yourself with his situation. He’s nearly as deft at untying knots as he is at creating them.” She nodded and eyed her bunk. When Ulaam left, could she take another nap? Or would she be reprimanded for loafing? “Yes…” Ulaam said absently, “Hoid should have known better than to tangle
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with the Sorceress. In fact, he probably did know better. Frightening, how infrequently he lets that influence what he actually decides to do.” Tress felt a start that drove away thoughts of sleep. “The Sorceress?” “Hmmmm? Yes, what did you think happened to him? He puts on a brave front, pretending to be just an ordinary idiot, but I assure you that he’s instead the extraordinary kind. Remarkable really. I always say, when trouble troubles you, keep a stiff’s upper lip! Or several.” “There’s someone on this ship,” Tress said, choosing her words carefully, “who knows the way to the Sorceress? Who has been there before, and escaped alive?” “Technically, yes,” Ulaam said. “But I haven’t the faintest idea how Hoid did it—I found him like this after I arrived on the planet in response to his letter.” “On the...planet?” she asked. “Like, you’re from the stars?” She’d heard stories of visitors from the stars, but had thought them fancies. Even if there did seem to be more and more of them these days, talked of among sailors. “Hmm?” Ulaam said. “Oh, yes. Not from a star really, but a planet that orbits one. Regardless, I doubt you’ll be able to get anything useful out of Hoid with that curse in place.” She put thoughts of such distant locations—and the cups they must have—out of her mind for now. There…there was someone here who could help her find Charlie! Hoid could be her solution! She felt an enormous sense of relief, then a sudden strike of panic. If she had left the ship, she would never have known. She sat down with a dazed expression, realizing that I was in fact the key she needed. She formed a real plan at last; one she could maybe accomplish. Find out from me how to reach the Sorceress, and perhaps learn how to deal with her. Still a daunting prospect. But it was better than what she’d had before. And as she sat there, she considered that perhaps this crew—and the kindly people on it, trapped in their own kind of prison—were exactly what she needed in order to save Charlie. “There are twelve seas,” Ann explained as she sat on the railing of the ship, knocking her heels rhythmically on the wood. “And therefore, twelve kinds of spores. How could you not know that?” “I lived all my life in a little mining town,” Tress explained. “Yes, we always talked about there being twelve seas and twelve moons. But I’ve learned so much in the last few days, I figured I should confirm things like that.” She’s right to ask, Ann, Fort said, holding up his sign. There are, after all, thirteen kinds of spores. “No there ain’t,” Ann said. “Don’t you be spreading that lie.” It’s not a lie, he wrote. It’s a legend. Different thing entirely. “Nonsense is the proper term,” Ann said. “People can’t even make up their minds on what color ‘bone spores’ are supposed to be. White or black? Or both? Listen, Tress. There are twelve kinds of
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spores.” Tress nodded. They were at the prow of the ship, on the upper deck, near the forward cannon. Tress hadn’t been surprised to find Ann here—the lanky carpenter often hung around the cannon, shooting it glances like a teenager with a crush. However, Tress had been surprised to see Fort sitting on deck this morning, darning socks. A part of her had believed him a permanent fixture of his office. For her part, Tress was carefully counting the pouches of zephyr spores in the gunnery barrel. She’d asked Laggart, and he’d said they should maintain forty on hand. She figured that counting them gave her a good excuse to move them out of the barrel into an aluminum box, where they’d be safe from the ship’s silver. “Twelve seas,” Tress said. “How many have you seen, Ann?” “Three,” she said proudly. “The Emerald Sea, the Sapphire Sea, and the Rose Sea.” Impressive, Fort wrote. “I know, isn’t it?” I’ve been to ten. “What?” Ann sat up straight. “Liar.” Why would I lie? “You’re literally a pirate,” Ann said. “Everyone knows you can’t trust those types.” Fort rolled his eyes expressively, then turned back to his work on his socks. Tress hesitated, looking at her box of pouches. Had that been the twenty-second or twenty-third she’d just counted? With a soft groan, she piled them all back into the barrel and started again. “Which two?” Ann asked, tapping Fort to make him look up. “Which ones haven’t you been to?” Not hard to guess, Fort wrote. “Midnight and Crimson Seas?” He nodded. “The Midnight Sea,” Tress said as she counted. “That’s where the Sorceress lives.” “Yeah,” Ann said. “And the Crimson Sea is the domain of the dragon. But that’s not why people don’t sail them. It’s the spores, Tress. You need to know this stuff, if you’re gonna sprout. Most types of spores are deadly, but two are downright catastrophic. Stay away from crimson spores and midnight spores, all right?” “All right,” Tress said. “You have to go through the Crimson though to get to the Midnight, right? So I’m unlikely to ever do that.” She frowned. “Why do you have to go through one to get to the other? Can’t you just sail around the Crimson to get to the Midnight?” “Not unless you can sail through several mountain ranges,” Ann said. “I suppose you could sail all around the world, then come upon the Midnight from behind.” It’s one of the reasons the Sorceress set up there, Fort explained. She controls trade through the region—the passage that connects the planet. Only her ships can sail the Midnight. “Been years,” Ann noted, “since there was any trade though. The king doesn’t want to pay tariffs, and so it’s war instead.” As if he thinks he can beat her, Fort said, shaking his head. He can’t even get a proper fleet through the Crimson. Too dangerous. Tress nodded. These seemed like things she probably should have known already. She was playing catch-up, but for a second time she was glad she
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hadn’t left these people. She realized that only one member of the crew likely had experience with the Sorceress personally—but all of them had information that could help her. “There are twenty-five pouches here,” she said, finishing. “So I need to make fifteen more.” “Without blowing off your face this time,” Ann said. “I didn’t blow it off.” “Technically, I’m sure some pieces of it were removed,” Ann said. “Too bad you got that salve. You’d look badass with a scar or two on your face.” Tress gave a noncommittal shrug to that. Then, as Ann returned to pestering Fort, Tress quietly undid the latch that opened the false bottom of the barrel and counted. Five hidden cannonballs, each a little larger than her fist. With Huck acting as lookout, she’d retrieved some ordinary ones from the ship’s hold. No one guarded them. Who would steal them? But now, trying to keep herself from sweating at the subterfuge, she began slipping them from her sack and swapping them for the ones in the barrel’s false bottom. She was certain she’d be noticed at any moment. But people rarely watch you as much as you think; they’re too busy worrying whether you are watching them. So Tress was able to, one at a time, replace Laggart’s secret cannonballs with ordinary ones. Then she latched the hidden bottom and replaced the twenty-five zephyr spore pouches. The swap performed, she pointedly dried her hands and did not poke at her mask. Anyone can blow their face off by accident—I mean, who hasn’t—but if you do it twice in a row, you look really silly. Tress cinched closed her sack. She still didn’t know what she’d do with those sabotaged cannonballs. Hide them in her cabin? Drop them off the boat in secret? “Hey Tress,” Ann said. “When you’re making charges, you think you could maybe whip me up a few extra? So I can practice?” “Don’t see why not,” Tress said. “Assuming the captain says it’s all right.” “Yeah,” Ann said. “Of course.” Though there was something in her tone, reminiscent of how you might talk about that project you’ve been planning to finish “tomorrow.” She wandered off, but only after trailing her fingers along the length of the cannon. Fort had been focused on his work, and had therefore missed the conversation. While his condition leads to plenty of difficulties, I will say I’ve always envied his ability to—by looking away—completely excise from his life most of the stupid things people say. Tress settled down on the deck in front of him, catching his attention. “What’s up with Ann and the cannons?” Tress asked. “I thought she was the ship’s assistant cannonmaster.” Suppose she still is, Fort wrote. Didn’t ever officially get removed from the post. She won’t be firing guns anytime soon though. Tress’s breath caught. “What did she do?” she whispered, leaning in. Are you whispering? Fort wrote back. “Um…yes.” That’s cute. “Ann. Are you going to tell me about her or not?” What will you trade me for the information? “Do
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we have to negotiate every time, Fort?” Tress asked. “Can’t we just chat like friends?” But the negotiation is the fun part! he wrote. It’s what tells me about you. What you’re willing to give up, what you value. Come on. Doesn’t it excite you to try to find the best deal? “I…don’t really know.” What will you tell me to get me to talk about Ann? Information for information. You’re distracting me from repairing these socks, you know. I can’t sew and watch the board at the same time. So you owe me. “But I don’t know anything interesting to trade.” Oh? And why are you here? What possessed a nice girl from a small town to steal an inspector’s coat and go out pretending to be a pirate? She leaned in, speaking softly despite what he’d said before. “My ignorance is that obvious?” Girl, if you’d been sailing the spore sea for longer than a week before we found you, I’ll eat my own cooking. So why are you out here? “I’m looking for someone,” she said. “Someone dear to me.” Ah, Fort wrote. So you’re searching the seas, like Salay. Hoping that at each new port, you’ll at last find the sock that… He deleted that part. Sorry. Board isn’t always good at predicting. You’re hoping to find that PERSON you’ve lost. Tress glanced across the ship toward the helmswoman, who stood as sturdy as the masts, fixed in her place on the quarterdeck, both hands gripping the ship’s wheel. As usual, her dark eyes were fixated on the horizon with the kind of intense expression people reserved for only the most important of tasks, like finding the last piece of unopened candy in a bag full of wrappers. She hunted relentlessly for her father. In the face of Salay’s confident determination, Tress’s own quest seemed laughable. “It’s…not really the same,” Tress told Fort. “Salay has no idea where she’ll find her father. I know exactly where Charlie is.” Fort nudged her a moment later. Oh? he’d written. Just need to save up some money to get to him, then? “It’s worse than that, I’m afraid,” she said. “The Sorceress has him. Attacked his ship. Took him captive.” Fort’s shoulders slumped. Oh, he wrote. I’m sorry. “Yeah. I barely have any idea what I’m doing, Fort. But I have to reach him.” She grimaced. “I said I’ll likely never reach the Midnight. That was kind of a lie. I’m determined to get there. Somehow.” If the Sorceress attacked his ship, he’s dead. I’m sorry. You should probably move on. “He’s alive,” Tress said. “She asked for a ransom from the king to free Charlie. I thought…maybe I could make enough money to convince the king to pay it.” Tress, Fort wrote, the Sorceress doesn’t ask for money as ransom. She asks for souls, usually from the royal bloodline. Mere money would never satisfy her. Tress blushed, feeling like an utter lunatic. She’d already realized that she wouldn’t be able to pay his way free, but still, the depth of
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her ignorance was disturbing. Like a fish trying very hard to jump out of its tank in order to escape, she’d been trying to solve a problem before stopping to wonder if she even understood her situation. Look, if this Charlie was kept for ransom, he’s likely a nobleman. Right? “Yes,” Tress whispered. That lot don’t care about people like us, Fort wrote. I’m sorry, but it’s the truth. You’d best move on. “Maybe,” Tress said. Well, you gave me information. Only fair that I give you what you wanted. I can tell you about Ann. “I didn’t tell you anything important, Fort,” Tress said. “You don’t have to take that in trade.” Ah, he wrote. But the information about Ann is barely worth anything. Everyone knows it. You’d have found out soon anyway. “You acted like it was some big secret!” Tress said. No. I just asked what you wanted to trade. He grinned, poking her in the arm with a knuckle, then continued writing. Don’t look indignant. Revealing your emotions makes it easier for people to get a good deal out of you. That one is free. Ann was given the job of assistant cannonmaster because she asked for it after the last one died. But no one thought to have her fire one of the blasted things first. “And…?” Tress asked. That woman has worse aim than a drunk man riding a three-legged llama, Fort wrote. She once fired a pistol at a target, but managed to nearly hit ME—and I was standing next to her. The first time she manned the cannon, her aim was so far off, the only thing NOT in danger was her target. “Moons,” Tress said. “Maybe…she just needs more practice.” I’ll let you teach her, then. I’ll be safely boarded up in my room, maybe with some armor on. Fort eyed her. Some things aren’t meant to be, girl. Sometimes you simply have to accept that. “You’re talking about me. And Charlie.” Maybe. Listen, Tress. Even if he’s still alive, the Sorceress will have cursed him like poor old Hoid. She uses a lot of different types, but she always puts one on her captives, to keep them pliable. “How do you know so much about it?” Tress asked. Captain told me, Fort explained. When she had me trade to get Hoid on our ship. “The captain specifically wanted Hoid on the ship?” Tress asked. “Why?” Don’t know. She heard about his curse and his trip to the Sorceress. Getting him was a poor deal, since his former shipmates were happy to be rid of him. Captain insisted though. Fort shook his head, considering the damage to his reputation once people found out how much he’d traded to get a lunatic to be their cabin boy. Tress’s interest deepened, however. Captain Crow had manipulated the crew into becoming pirates, then forced them to become deadrunners—because she wanted them to sail dangerous seas. And she’d specifically been watching for someone cursed by the Sorceress? Could the captain be looking to visit the Sorceress herself?
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Tress looked toward Crow. And then, Tress took the singular step that separated her from people in most stories. The act, it might be said, that defined her as a hero. She did something so incredible, I can barely express its majesty. I should consider this more, Tress thought to herself, and not jump to conclusions. Perhaps you are confused at why I, your humble storyteller, would make such a fuss about this. Tress stopped, wondered if she’d jumped to a conclusion, and decided to reconsider? Nothing special, right? Wrong. So very, soul-crushingly wrong. Worldbringers like myself spend decades combing through folk tales, legends, myths, histories, and drunken bar songs looking for the most unique stories. We hunt for bravery, cleverness, heroism. And we find no shortage of such virtues. Legends are silly with them. But the person who is willing to reconsider their assumptions? The hero who can sit down and reevaluate their life? Well, now that is a gemstone that truly glitters, friend. Perhaps you would prefer a story about someone facing a dragon. Well, this isn’t that kind of story. (Which makes it even more remarkable that Tress still does that eventually. But kindly stop getting ahead of me.) I can understand why you would want tales of people like Linji, who tried to sail around the world with no Aviar. I, however, would trade a dozen Linjis for one person who is willing to sit down for a single blasted minute and think about what they’re doing. Do you know how many wars could have been prevented if just one person in charge had stopped to think, “You know, maybe we should double-check; perhaps blinking twice isn’t an insult in their culture”? Do you know how many grand romances would have avoided tragedy if the hero had thought, “You know, maybe I should ask her if she likes me first”? Do you know how many protracted adventures might have been shortened if the heroine had stopped to wonder, “You know, maybe I should look extra carefully to see if the thing I’m searching for has been with me the entire time”? I’m drowning in bravery, cleverness, and heroism. Instead, kindly give me a little common sense. At that moment, Tress was downright majestic. I need more information, Tress thought. Before I decide that I know what the captain’s plan is. I need to find a way to spy on her. Maybe I can use Huck again. She nodded—and in that moment, Tress saved herself a huge amount of trouble. The captain’s plan had nothing to do with the Sorceress, after all, but everything to do with why the crew were so frightened of her. Tress picked up her sack—pretending it wasn’t full of cannonballs, which was as hard as it sounded—and carried it to the aft cannon, which was set up on the quarterdeck. She performed a similar swap there (placing the cannonballs she took in a separate bag within her larger one) while counting zephyr spore charges. Then she hauled her bag belowdecks, where she stowed it
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in her room. From there she went looking for me. Now, normally this would also have been a shining example of common sense on her part. Everyone can use a little more Wit in their lives. Except me. I could stand to lose a pound or two. Unfortunately, I wasn’t exactly in the best state of mind during this voyage. She found me playing cards with a group of the Dougs. I was wearing a shoe around my neck, tied by the laces, as I’d decided it was certain to be the absolute soul of fashion the following season. I’d forgotten to wear pants, as one does, and my underclothing needed a good washing. Actually, all of me did. I was trying to play a game I’d invented called “Kings” where everyone held their cards backward, so you didn’t know what you had but everyone else did. I can imagine several interesting applications of this now—but back then the only interesting part was how easily the Dougs won my wages off me, followed by my shoe. I still have no idea what I did with the other one. Once the Dougs were finished taking me for what little I was worth, they scrambled off to find some other victim. I sat there, wondering if perhaps I should start wearing a sock around my neck, until Tress settled down beside me. “Would you like to play Kings?” I asked with a grin. “I still have some undershorts I can bet!” “Um, no thanks,” Tress said. “Hoid, I know you visited the Sorceress. Do you…remember anything about it?” “Yup!” I said. “Great! What can you tell me?” “C…c…c…can’t!” I said, tapping my head. “Words don’t work that way, kiddo. She makes them into something else!” “I don’t understand,” Tress said. “Neither do I!” I replied. “That’s the problem! Can’t say anything at all about what you might think! It’s p…p…p…” I shrugged, unable to form the word. “Your…curse forbids you from talking about your curse?” Tress guessed. I winked. Mostly because I had something in my eye. But in this case, Tress had guessed correctly. The Sorceress was quite specific with each geas: if you tried to talk about it, you’d stutter or the words would die halfway out of your lips. You couldn’t even tell people you were cursed unless they already knew. “So,” Tress said, “if I want you to lead me to the Sorceress, I have to find a way to break your curse—without knowing anything about it. Plus, I have to do that without any help from you whatsoever.” I took her hands in mine. I looked her in the eyes. I took a deep breath, trembling. “I once ate an entire watermelon in one sitting,” I told her. “And it gave me diarrhea.” Tress sighed, pulling her hands free. “Right, right. I guess finding a way to break your curse is slightly less impossible than finding my way to the Sorceress on my own. That’s something, at least.” There was still a part of me—deep down—that knew what was
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going on. The Sorceress was cruel like that. Sure, turning a man into a simpleton is fun—but true torture lies in letting him remain just aware enough to be horrified. That sensate part of me scrambled to find some way to help. Ulaam had been useless, of course. That’s the problem with immortals—they get used to sitting around waiting for problems to work themselves out. But here was someone willing to help. What could I say? What could I do? Only a sliver of me was still awake, and it had almost no control. Plus, every time I tried to say anything about my specific predicament, the curse would activate, driving me back and prompting me to do something monstrous, like wear socks with sandals. That glimmer of awareness started to fade. And I seized upon that. My own stupidity. The curse, like many magics of its ilk, depended on how the subject thought—on their Intent. I could use that, I knew. The spark flared up, like a midnight fire as the coals shifted. I reached toward Tress and blanked my mind as I forced out a string of words. “Listen, this is important,” I said to her. “I promise. You must bring me to your planet, Tress. Repeat that.” “Bring you…to my planet?” “Yes, yes! I can save you if you do that.” “But you’re already here!” “Here what?” I said, having deliberately forgotten what I’d said. “Planets don’t matter. For now, look for the group of six stars, Tress!” Tress hesitated. Six stars? Unfortunately, in that exclamation, my strength was spent. I sat back, adopted a goofy grin, and decided to do some empirical research regarding the flavors of different toes. With a sigh, Tress returned to her quarters. She’d left the door open for Huck, and so wasn’t surprised when she arrived and found... Whimpering? She burst into the room to find the ship’s cat—Knocks—crouched and staring under the bed, tail waggling. Tress threw the thing out the door and slammed it, and in the silence that followed she could distinctly make out the sounds of a hyperventilating rat. “Huck?” she asked, getting down on her hands and knees, peering beneath the bed. She made him out in the corner, squeezed into the space between the wood of the bed’s leg and the wall. As he saw her, he came timidly toward her, and she scooped him up, feeling him tremble in her hands. “It’s gone,” she said. “I’m sorry, Huck.” He didn’t speak—a rare occasion where he seemed completely without breath or words. He just cringed there in her hands, looking more...well, like a rat than he ever had before. Finally he spoke, his voice trembling. “Perhaps you can leave the door locked from now on. There’s a crack in the floor, and I can squeeze in that way, after climbing the post in the hallway below.” “All right,” Tress said. “Are you...going to be okay?” Huck glanced at the door. “Yeah, sure,” he whispered. “Give me a little time. I...still can’t believe they got a cat.” “You’re
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intelligent, Huck,” Tress said. “You can handle a common cat.” “Sure. Yeah. No problem. But Tress...I don’t know. It’s always watching. Prowling. Cats are supposed to sleep twenty-six hours a day. How can I use my intelligence, how can I plan, knowing it’s watching?” After a few minutes, he seemed to relax. He nodded to her, so she set him on the footboard, then lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling—which was the upper deck of the ship. She could hear sailors crossing it, feet thumping. Wood creaking as the ship rocked. Spores made a constant low, hushed sound as they scraped past. Like a whisper. Someone had carved parts of the ceiling with a knife. Crude little patterns of crossing lines. “I hope your day has been better than mine,” Huck said, perched on the footboard of the bed. The entire thing had a nice railing to keep her from rolling out as the ship swayed. “It’s been somewhat frustrating,” Tress said. “But not life-threatening.” What she wanted wasn’t nearly so important as what he needed, and she felt guilty for focusing on herself. “Your problem with the cat is more pressing. Maybe we could keep it extra well fed, so it doesn’t want to hunt you?” “Cats don’t stop hunting because they’re full, Tress. They’re like people in that regard.” “Sorry,” she said. “We don’t have cats on the Rock.” “Sounds like a wonderful place.” “It was sweet and tranquil,” she said. “And though the smog above town is pretty terrible, people tend to treat one another well. It’s a good place. An honest place.” “I’d like to go there someday. I know you’re thirsty for adventure, but I’ve had plenty.” “You could go,” Tress said. “You don’t need to stay with me, Huck.” “Tired of me already?” “What!” she said, sitting up. “That’s not what I meant!” “You’re too polite, girl,” he said, twitching his nose. “I’ll assume that you know less about rats than you do about cats. Try to imagine what it’s like to be roughly the size of a sandwich, and to have most of the world consider you as tasty as one. Trust me, you’d do what I have.” “Which is?” “Find a sympathetic human and stick close to them,” Huck said. “Besides, I have a good feeling about you, remember?” “But you’ve got to have family somewhere.” “Yeah, but they don’t much care for me,” he said. “Are they…like you?” “You mean, can they talk?” Huck said. “Yes.” He paused, his head cocked, as if searching for the right way to explain. “I come from a place a lot like the one you came from. My kind has lived there for generations. But my kin, they thought it was time to go. See the world. They dragged me off for my own good. That didn’t go well. “They wouldn’t much like me hanging around with you. I’m not supposed to talk to your kind, you see. Still, like I said, I’ve got a good feeling about you. And so, I’m staying close.
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But I certainly wouldn’t mind if you decided—of your own free will—to head someplace less exciting…” Tress tried to imagine it. A land full of talking rats? It sounded exotic and interesting. The twelve seas were a strange and incredible place, full of wonders. Huck kept talking, telling her about life as a rat. And there was a calming sense to his voice. It soothed her, and she found herself relaxing, her eyes tracking the carvings on the ceiling. Someone—perhaps her predecessor—had taken a lot of time to carve them. In fact…did those bursts of crossing lines look like…stars? Tress sat up, cutting off Huck. He scampered along the bed railing over beside her. “What?” Stars. Carved in little bursts. A single star there, then two stars close together next to it. Then three…all across the wood of the ceiling, as if someone had stood on the bed with a knife and used the point to scrape them. No groupings of six stars, she thought. “What?” Huck said. “What are you staring at?” “Nothing,” Tress said, flopping back down. “I thought, for a moment, that Hoid had said something important.” “You’ve been listening to him? Tress, I thought you were smart, for a human. Hoid is…you know.” “He said something about six stars,” Tress said. “But there are no bunches of six.” “I can see that,” Huck said. “I told you he’s a lunatic, Tress. No use in trying to figure out what he means.” “I suppose,” she said. “Besides,” Huck noted, “those look more like explosions. The stars are under the bed.” Tress froze, then leaped off the bed and pulled herself underneath. The bottom of the bed frame was carved as well—and with patterns that were indeed more starlike. There was one patch of six stars. Feeling like she might be submitting to lunacy herself, Tress pushed it. Something clicked, and a small latch opened on the side of the frame. Inside, Tress found a small aluminum container the size of a matchbox. Huck climbed onto her shoulder as she pushed it open. In it she found midnight-black spores. So how did I know? Well, I believe you’ve been told. I’m an expert at being places I’m not supposed to be. I have an innate sixth sense for mystery. In my current state, I might have thought vests with no shirt underneath to be the absolute height of fashion, but I was still fully capable of a little constructive snooping. Tress’s breath caught. Huck hissed softly. Midnight spores. Somehow, Weev had gotten ahold of midnight spores. She was reminded of what the captain had said, that all sprouters were—to one extent or another—crazy. Weev, she thought, might have been a little extra so. (Tress was being generous. I’d have called him crazier than a nitroglycerin smoothie.) “Put those away,” Huck said. “No, better, spread them over the silver. Kill them, Tress. Midnight spores are dangerous.” “In what way?” she asked. “What do they do?” “Terrible things.” “All spores do terrible things,” Tress said. “What do these do specifically?” “I…don’t know,”
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Huck admitted. “But I feel like you’re way too relaxed about holding them.” Perhaps she was. But danger is like icy water; you can get used to it if you take it slowly. She tucked the little box of spores safely back in its hidden compartment. She’d have to see if Ulaam knew— She jumped as the bell rang up above. Three quick peals, a warning to everyone on board. A ship had been spotted in the distance, and the captain had decided to pursue. Tress scrambled out of her room, but then stood in the hallway, not wanting to crowd the Dougs as they hastened to the top deck. It was excruciating to wait, as she didn’t want to miss anything. She needn’t have worried. When she finally reached the deck, she found the Dougs clustered anxiously near the railing, looking out at a distant ship. As usual, the Crow’s Song flew a royal merchant’s flag. They wouldn’t announce their pirate nature until the proper dramatic moment. Like the third-act twist of a play, only with the added bonus of grand larceny. What followed was an extended chase that took five hours. The Crow’s Song was faster than most ships, particularly after it dropped the ballast it used to sit lower in the spores, mimicking a merchant ship fully laden with goods in the hold. But “speed” is a relative term at sea—particularly the spore sea, when the seethe could stop or start at any moment. Tress hadn’t realized how unusual it had been for her first vessel to be caught by surprise. This second pursuit required exacting work from the crew and the helmswoman, who slowly but surely ran down their prey. The hours made Tress’s tension mount. This was it. The final test of her plan to swap the cannonballs. She grew increasingly certain she had failed. Surely someone had discovered what she’d done. Surely she wasn’t clever enough to trick seasoned killers like Laggart and the captain. Her heart nearly leaped from her chest when Crow shouted the order. “Forward cannon to bear! All sailors, take arms!” The Dougs ran for their muskets—though the ship they were chasing was still far away. Tress didn’t try to arm herself. Considering how she’d fired a musket precisely zero times in her life, she figured the best way to keep her digits attached was to continue that perfect record. She did, however, position herself near the prow, where she could witness Ann begging Laggart to let her have the first shot. He chewed her out and sent her to stand with the others—where one of the Dougs pointedly took the pistol from her hand and put a cutlass in it instead. Ann had another pistol out a moment later, slipped from the holster on the back of her belt. “Warning shot, Cannonmaster!” Crow shouted. Tress held her breath. Laggart swiveled the cannon with a crank, then sighted with his spyglass before using another lever to raise the cannon’s barrel a few inches. He continued this process, exacting and precise, making adjustments.
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Finally, he pulled a wet firing stick from the bucket of water at his station. He touched it to the firing pan, setting off the zephyr spores with a raucous explosion. The ball soared directly at the fleeing ship. This was no warning shot; it would be another “accidental” direct hit—intended to sink, not frighten. Tress heard Ann mutter nearby as she watched the cannonball’s trajectory. Tress steeled herself, her panic mounting as she thought of the poor sailors on that ship. Then, with what seemed like only moments to spare, the cannonball exploded. Set to detonate like a mortar, it sprayed water across the side of the prey ship—but left the hull unharmed. The sea’s response was, of course, immediate. Enormous tentacles of vines erupted from the spore sea, wrapping around the wet side of the ship, gripping the vessel in a deadly embrace. Even from a distance, Tress was certain she could hear the planks groaning. But the ship’s hull did not crack. The precision shot immobilized the ship instead of destroying it. Though the crew cheered—this meant easy plunder—Laggart cursed softly, his face going red. The shade of a forge the moment before you remove the iron and proceed to lay into it with everything you have. Captain Crow marched across the deck to the cannon station. Her glare could have skinned a cat, but out loud she said, “Not exactly what I’d call a warning shot, Cannonmaster. But that was…a very clean capture.” “Thank you, Captain,” Laggart said. “I apologize for failing you in your request.” He punctuated each syllable, as if he were whipping the sounds for coming from his lips. Tress nearly started hyperventilating from the anxiety. Was Laggart looking at her with a more-surly-than-normal expression? Did he know? If he suspected foul play, there was only one rational culprit. The captain seemed like she wanted to order another shot, but then she glanced at the cheering Dougs. Even in the twisted lump of smoldering coal that was her heart, Crow understood she needed good morale on her vessel. A quick and easy haul here would accomplish that. “Run up the pirate’s flag, seaman Doug,” she said. In response, their prey fired a flare bright in the air. Surrender. The Dougs cheered again. Tress started to calm down. It…it was working. Unfortunately, as the Crow’s Song drew close to the captive ship, the seethe stilled. The Crow’s Song lurched to a halt, and this instantly dampened everyone’s enthusiasm. Tress looked at the Dougs, worried. What was the problem? There were interruptions like this every day. “Ann?” Tress said, sidling up to her. “What’s wrong?” “The ship surrendered,” Ann said, her voice tense, “’cuz they knew they were beaten. With them held by vines, we could maneuver, an’ they could not. But now we’re both of us stuck. The sea just evened this match. An’ they gotta be asking if maybe they shouldn’t just…” She trailed off as a blue puff of zephyr spores rose from the other ship’s aft. Followed by a crack. Followed by a
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whistle and a crash as a cannonball hit the Crow’s Song right at the prow, where spores met wood. Dougs shouted and went scrambling. Ann cursed something incredibly vile relating to what comes out of the business end of a seagull. “Damn fine shooting,” Laggart muttered. “Hit us first shot? They’ve got quite the cannonmaster.” Crow shoved aside a few Dougs, then calmly raised her weapon. It looked…sleeker than the older muskets the Dougs carried, and had a different sight. Though the Crow’s Song had shortened the distance to the other ship, Tress was still amazed as the captain trained her musket toward the enemy, closed one eye, and fired. A man on the distant ship—the one holding the water firing stick as his assistants reloaded the cannon—dropped in a spray of blood. “Well,” Laggart said, “I guess they had a damn fine cannonmaster.” “Carpenter and sprouter,” the captain said loudly as she lowered her musket and began to reload, dropping a small pouch of zephyr spores down the muzzle. “We’ve been hit. When the seethe comes again, we’ll scoop up half the sea—and everyone on this ship will find out what spores taste like. Perhaps you’d like to do your jobs and prevent that.” “Right, Cap’n!” Ann said, raising her pistol. “Let me just get off one shot before—” At least a half dozen Dougs grabbed her arm, wrestling for the pistol. The captain ignored them, sighting once again, then dropped the sailor who had been hefting a cannonball to load into the enemy’s cannon. It was the best shooting Tress had ever seen. It was the only shooting, granted. Nevertheless, I’ll admit Crow was one of the best shots I’d ever seen. And considering that primitive muskets handle like a snake being electrocuted, that is saying something. “To work, Ann,” the captain said, calm—yet somehow threatening, ice crusting her voice. “Or my next shot won’t have to travel to another ship.” “Moonshadows,” Ann said, stumbling over to Tress. “Those Dougs really wanted a chance to use my pistol, eh? Well, let’s be on with the cap’n’s order. Stop delaying, Tress!” She scrambled belowdecks, Tress following. “You have your tools?” Ann asked as they reached the middle deck. “What tools?” Tress asked. “Ann, I only became ship’s sprouter this morning! I have no idea what I’m doing.” “Right, right,” Ann said, wiping her brow. Above, a cannon shot sounded from their ship. “We need rose spores. There should be a whole bunch of them in Weev’s room.” Tress nodded. She led Ann to the room, though the carpenter hesitated at the threshold. Tress continued inside, then pried off the top of a small barrel full of rose spores. “Get some of those,” Ann said, “and put them in one of the metal boxes. The kind you can transport spores in? Yeah, that. Um…I saw Weev use some other equipment too. I don’t really know a lot about this, kid.” Tress finished filling the metal box with spores. Then she pulled open the closet, revealing an array of metal tools hanging from
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pegs on the inside of the door. She didn’t see anything like the box the sprouter had used on the other ship. Weev, it should be noted, was a purist. He preferred the classical tools of the trade, not the modern ones. “Any of these look right?” Tress asked. “Oh!” Ann said. “That one with the flat side, like a plate. And that trowel. Grab those.” The second tool did indeed look like a small shovel, but the first one looked less like a plate to Tress and more like a shield. A little round shield—flat on the front, with a handle on the back to hold it. The tools had clips on them for hanging from a belt, but there wasn’t time for that. Tress gathered them up, along with the spores and an eyedropper bottle of water, then stumbled out to meet Ann—who backed away, hands up. “Righty-o,” Ann said. “Normally, I’d let the sprouter handle the initial patch while I gathered lumber, but I think maybe you could use a little help, eh?” “Thanks,” Tress said, letting Ann lead the way down to the hold. Bright sunlight bathed the normally dim confines, shining in through a hole near the ceiling. The hold was taller than the other decks, putting the hole some nine feet up in the air. “I’ll get a ladder,” Ann said. “So, what you need to do is grow some spores in that hole. It don’t have to be pretty—I’ll do the pretty part with wood over the next few days. We just need that hole filled. Roseite is good at resisting silver, and can last quite a while once in place. So it makes a great plug, assuming you…ya know…don’t kill yourself first.” “Any advice on avoiding that last part?” Tress asked, her voice growing more shrill. “Wish I did, kid. Those are the right two tools, but I stayed real far away whenever Weev broke out the spores. That guy was nuttier than squirrel droppings. No offense.” Ann set up the ladder, then backed away. She didn’t offer any further help, but Tress was thankful nonetheless. She climbed to the top of the ladder and looked out at the ocean of spores. At the moment they were calm, flat, stable. But the instant the seethe started, the ship would move forward—and the verdant spores would come flooding through the gap. Even if the hold had a silver lining, the ship would quickly take on too much weight and stop floating. Tress didn’t hear any more shots from above. She pretended that was a good sign as she set her equipment on a nearby shelf for sacks. Last of all, she opened the aluminum box of spores. They looked like grains of pink salt. Trembling, she tipped the box until a few of them dribbled out onto the edge of the broken wood. Unfortunately, by the time she had the dropper open and the water ready to squirt, the spores had turned a dark grey. Dead from the silver in the deck just above. Feeling
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stupid, she closed the box—but not before a number of those inside had died also. She took a few deep breaths. Then, forcing herself to keep trying, she put some water on the wood first—then opened the box. Leaning back and shielding her face, she sprinkled a few spores onto the water. It was a commendable execution of a terrible plan. The rose spores burst into thick roseite crystals—like big chunks of quartz. While they weren’t sharp, some broke up into the ceiling and another shot diagonally past Tress’s head—nearly smashing her in the face. It didn’t plug the hole—the crystals left far too much space between them, and their weight caused them to rip off the wood and tumble down: half out into the sea, half down to the bottom of the hold. Tress gasped, belatedly. “Tress!” Ann said. “Be careful!” Moonshadows…what was she doing? The entire ship was depending on her, but she knew as much about this as she did about weaponized vexillology. (Watch out for the solid-colored flags. They’ll getcha.) You saw that sprouter on the Oot’s Dream, she reminded herself. He sealed the hole. The tools were different, but you know what the patch is supposed to look like. As she fumbled with the tools, she noticed something. The roseite was still growing. When the large crystals had broken free, they’d left small bits attached to the hull—and those, touching water, were expanding slowly. Like a creeping mold. Did the same thing happen with verdant spores? Did the vines keep growing if you added more water? She didn’t know. But she added some water to the growing roseite spores. And yes, although the growth was slow, they did continue to expand. Far too slowly to fill the hole, she thought. Still, like the proverbial politician in a dumpster, it was a good start. She took the tool that resembled a shield and pressed it to the roseite. The crystals responded immediately, pulling toward the metal, which (from the slate grey color) seemed to be simple iron. The other tool, the trowel, made the crystals grow away from it. It was of polished silvery metal. (Steel, for those who compulsively track these things.) Right, so each tool influenced the growth of the spores. That made sense. Perhaps— A low, rumbling noise came from outside the hull. A reverberating horror. The sound of spores churning. The seethe was beginning again. “Tress!” Ann shouted. No time for contemplation. If those spores flooded in, Tress would be the first to go. She took the shield-tool in her left hand and pressed it to the hole. With her other hand, she grabbed a tiny pinch of two or three spores—no time to worry if her hands were dry enough—and dropped them in the water on the rim of the broken wood. They exploded, but were pulled to the shield—and it prevented them from going in unexpected directions. The force of it did nearly shove her off the ladder. Ann cried out and grabbed the base of it to steady her, which helped.
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As roseite crystals began to grow around the edges of the shield, Tress grabbed the trowel and pushed them away. She was able to angle them to grow toward the sides of the hole, like using mortar that grew as she directed. Wind in the sails made the ship rock backward, lifting the prow. Tress barely got the crystals to seal the final edge of the hole as the ship crashed forward. Her plug shook and cracked. There had been water on the other edge, but the vines that grew because of it didn’t break through—and there wasn’t enough water for them to grow big enough to trap the ship. The moment stretched, pulled taut with anxiety, trembling and holding its breath. The patch held. “Oh, moons,” Ann said. “You actually did it. Can you…maybe put another layer on, or…” “Let’s not tempt fate,” Tress said, trying to pull her shield tool free. It was overgrown with the roseite and affixed in place. “I’ll probably need a silver knife to cut this off. Maybe we should try that when we’re docked someplace safe.” “Yeah, all right,” Ann said, holding the ladder as Tress climbed down. “I’m just glad you were here. Until you took the job, it would have been my duty to patch that. I would’ve used wood, and that pause in the seethe was short enough that I wouldn’t have had nearly enough time.” Another crack sounded above. Gunfire. “This isn’t over yet,” Ann said. “Merciful moons, I hope that patch holds. Come on.” Tress made a brief stop in her room to stow the box of spores and her remaining tool—reassuring Huck, who was hiding under the bed again—then hurried up the steps. By the time she arrived, the Crow’s Song was getting dangerously close to their target. Three bodies lay bleeding on the deck of the merchant ship. The rest of the crew held up their arms, no visible weapons drawn. It looked like Laggart had tried another cannon shot—because another burst of vines covered the ship’s aft section, many of them overgrowing the enemy cannon. Another of Tress’s swapped cannonballs had exploded instead of sinking the ship, but it might not be enough. The merchant vessel had given Crow plenty of excuses to be angry; Tress worried she would order the crew to slaughter everyone aboard that poor vessel. The pirates would have their treasure, and Crow would have her reputation as a deadrunner. As the Crow’s Song slowed, several Dougs threw hooks with ropes over to the merchant vessel. Another dropped the anchor. Nervous, Tress looked to the captain, who stood with her musket at the ready. “All crew,” Crow said, “swords out. Prepare to board.” Tress felt a sudden spike of panic. No! After all she had done to protect those— “Captain!” a voice called. Sharp, commanding. Everyone turned toward the quarterdeck, where Salay stood, one hand on the ship’s wheel. She locked it in place, now that the ship was anchored, then walked to the steps. “By tradition,” Salay called, “the duty to engage
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the captain of a captured ship falls to me, does it not?” The Dougs kept their weapons trained on the merchant vessel, but none spoke. They knew someone was very likely to be shot in the next few minutes, and didn’t want to seem like they were volunteering. Crow turned to face Salay straight on, musket held in a loose grip. The helmswoman did not back down, and Tress found herself praying to the moons. “We have subdued them,” Salay said loudly. “They have surrendered. We became pirates for the freedom. Nothing more.” She stood firm, and her posture made her intent clear. She would not stand by and let the merchant crew be slaughtered. If Crow wanted a massacre today, she’d have to start by killing Salay. Crow could do it; she’d done it to Weev. But how many crewmembers could Crow lose and still have a functioning ship? “As you say,” Crow finally announced. “Let them know I do not…appreciate the bilging my ship received after they sent up the flare of surrender. That sort of…indiscretion costs lives.” “They’ll pay more than the normal bounty,” Salay said. “I’ll make sure of it, Captain.” Tress let out a held breath. Sailors started moving again, throwing more boarding hooks to keep the ships from drifting apart. Salay was the first to hop over to the merchant ship. Tress sat down on the steps to the quarterdeck, worn out, now feeling like the washrag you find at the very bottom of the bin—the one that had been wadded up, then pressed flat for weeks by the pile. A shadow fell over her. “We didn’t sink,” Crow said. “That means you did your job.” Tress nodded. “She was great, Captain,” Ann said from behind. “A natural, I’d say. Sealed that hole on her second try. Barely seemed terrified by the spores.” “Indeed,” Crow said, her expression unreadable as she continued looking at Tress. “Ann, don’t you think you should be fitting planks? In case this…expert work by our new sprouter isn’t as durable as it might seem?” “I suppose.” She moved off. “Ann,” the captain said, holding her hand out. Ann sighed and handed over a pistol she’d found somewhere, then vanished belowdecks. Crow moved over to watch the merchant ship as Dougs began appearing from its hold bearing rolled rugs—the ship’s cargo. The group of merchant sailors huddled on deck, where their captain spoke softly with Salay. He had a squeezed face, with too much forehead and chin, like you were seeing it reflected in a spoon. Everyone had calmed down save one man: a sailor who knelt on the deck apart from the others. Something about his posture bothered Tress, so she climbed the steps to get a better look through the overgrown vines. Yes, the man was cradling the corpse of one of the people Crow had shot. A friend? Family member? The weeping man looked up. Reckless, dangerous. Tress opened her mouth to call out a warning, but the man lurched to his feet and pulled a pistol from his
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belt. With a quivering hand, he pointed it across the gap between ships toward Crow. Again, everyone froze. Everyone but Captain Crow herself. She stared down that barrel with indifference. “Smocke!” the merchant captain yelled. “Don’t be a lunatic, man! You’ll get us all killed!” The man, Smocke, stood up—stained with his friend’s blood—but didn’t lower the gun. He also didn’t pull the trigger. Captain Crow raised the pistol she’d taken off Ann and pointed it at the man. Then Crow turned the pistol around and shot herself in the head. Immediately, vines erupted from Crow’s skin. They split her cheek and wormed out around her eyes, writhing and twisting. One caught the bullet. The skin of her face and hand rippled, as if she had serpents for muscles. The vines wriggled, then withdrew, slithering back into her body. A drop of blood leaked from the corner of Crow’s eye, and a bit more seeped from a rip in her cheek, but otherwise her face appeared untouched. She lowered the pistol, then took a long pull on her canteen. Finally she waved Smocke forward—as if demanding he try shooting her too. Several of his crew members tackled him, and the shot went off into the air. “I expect my ship to sail in under an hour,” Crow said loudly, “laden with more riches than she should rightly carry.” Her eyes lingered on the other ship’s captain, who still stood near Salay. “If it is not done, I shall visit your fine vessel and teach each and every one of you what it means to cross Captain Crow. If you doubt my sincerity, ask the crew of the Oot’s Dream how much they’re enjoying life at the bottom of the Verdant Sea.” The captain disappeared into her cabin. Tress slumped on the steps again, trembling, burdened by the terrible sight of those vines bursting from Crow’s body. What was she? “The captain is a gestator for the verdant aether,” Dr. Ulaam said, holding up a narrow bottle containing something uncomfortably reminiscent of a kidney floating in solution. “She just ate what?” Tress asked, sitting in his exam room. “Not just ate. Gestate. It means to incubate. Crow is host to an aggressive strain of the verdant parasite. Your lore calls people like her spore eaters, though I find that an imprecise term. Tell me. Where do spores come from?” “The moons,” Tress said. “Ah, yes,” Ulaam said. “The moons. As food comes from the kitchen, or pottery comes from the Zephyr Islands. There couldn’t possibly be another step involved, hmmm? These things just magically appear?” “So…you mean how do the spores get to the moons?” “Rather,” Ulaam said, “what on the moons produces them? Hmmmmm?” “I…have no idea,” Tress said. It was a realization she probably should have made before. Ulaam knelt beside her, holding the kidney up to her side. He shook it, then raised his eyebrow. “Trade?” he asked. “This one will make your urine smell of lilacs.” “Um…no thank you.” “Would you sell one?” Ulaam said. “Again, no.” “Selfish,” Ulaam
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said. “You don’t need two.” “And how many do you have?” Ulaam grinned. “Touché.” “To say what?” “No, it means you have successfully rebutted me.” He stood up, shaking his head. “Regardless, your moons are home to a group of voracious entities known as aethers. Though the true aethers on other worlds have a symbiosis with people, the ones on your moons have become insatiable, aggressive, and fecund.” “I’m not allowed to say that word,” Tress said. “No, it means…actually, that word means something very close to what you think it means, but it’s a more polite way of saying it. Anyway, the aethers up above are rampantly self-propagating, and each is connected to a primal element. Vegetation, atmosphere, silicate… “This alone is dangerous, but your varieties are also highly unstable. The tiniest hint of a catalyst—water, in this case—and they pull Investiture directly from the Spiritual Realm to explosively germinate. It’s a remarkable process.” Tress considered this, and found herself with a dozen more questions. Once, she might have been too polite to ask them, as he didn’t owe her explanations. But there was something about Ulaam that invited such conversation. Surely that was it, and not that she was changing. “So…” Tress said, “how did the captain get that thing inside of her?” “I’ve been unable to find a satisfying answer,” Ulaam said, pulling out a rack full of bottled kidneys, then putting away the one he’d been holding. “Some say it randomly happens to people who fall into the sea, while others claim you have to ingest a very special kind of spore.” “So she did eat it,” Tress said. “Maybe.” “Maybe,” Ulaam said, pulling back the sleeve of his suit to reveal a grey-skinned forearm. With an ear growing out of it. “You have an ear on your arm!” Tress said. “Hmmmm? Oh, yes.” “But…why?” “Because when I put it on my inner thigh,” Ulaam said, “I kept hearing my clothing brush across it in a most distracting way.” “Isn’t your head a better location?” “I already have two there,” Ulaam said. “Did you not notice them? Earregardless, your captain’s affliction is a dire one. She is connected directly to the prime verdant aether growing on the moon. It needs water to survive, and the moon has none. So it somehow infects people on the planet. “The vines inside Captain Crow are exceptionally thirsty, and they constantly drain her of liquid. Somehow, they use that liquid—along with that from other spore eater hosts around the world—to feed the enormous overgrown aether on the moon. I’ve been unable to discover the mechanism.” “The vines keep her alive though,” Tress said. “They saved her from that bullet.” “Yes,” Ulaam said. “The aether protects itself by protecting her, but it’s rabid. Insatiable. Incapable of rational thought, it is sucking her dry. The affliction is progressive, taking more and more from its host. I’m told it is exceptionally painful, and it is always fatal.” “Merciful moons,” Tress whispered. “That almost makes me feel sorry for her.” “Yes, well, most terrible mass murderers
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like Crow do tend to be well acquainted with tragedy. It makes you wonder who the true monster is: the killer, or the society that created them?” Tress nodded. “That was a trick question,” Ulaam said. “The true monster is the one in that drawer next to you. I gave it seven different faces.” Tress glanced at the drawer in the small end table beside her seat. It rattled. She pretended not to notice. “At least now I know why the crew is afraid of her,” Tress said. “They don’t dare mutiny because that thing inside her would protect her from them.” “Indeed,” Ulaam said. “I have little doubt the captain could kill each and every person on this ship without suffering any ill effects. Other than, you know, no longer having a crew. Temporary immortality does not make one able to trim the sails all by one’s self, as the old adage goes.” “That’s an old adage?” “Odd,” Ulaam said. “I meant odd. I think the tongue I’ve been using is wearing out. It used to be able to roll marvelously. Did you know that ability is genetic? One in four tongues can’t manage it.” He looked closely at her mouth. Tress pointedly did not attempt to roll her tongue. Instead she tried to figure out Captain Crow’s goals. The woman wanted to push the crew, make them desperate. To sail dangerous waters, because she was dying? And wanted to get in as much living as she could before she went? “How long,” Tress said, “do you suppose Crow has left?” “Hard to say,” Ulaam said. “I hear the malady usually plays out in under a year, but I gather she’s had it longer than that. She is lasting remarkably long, but at this point I doubt she has months left. Weeks, maybe days. I’ve noticed she needs to drink nearly constantly to prevent herself from dehydrating and withering away.” It was another piece of the puzzle. Unfortunately, Tress had no idea how many pieces she needed—or what that puzzle would look like when assembled. “Was there anything else you wanted?” Ulaam asked. “I have acquired an eighth face, you see, and I think there might be space to graft it on the underside of the thorax.” “What do midnight spores do?” Tress asked. Ulaam frowned. He quietly rolled down his sleeve, then stepped closer to Tress, leaning over and studying her with one eye. “Hoid!” he called. The cabin boy wandered in. Tress hadn’t realized I’d been outside. “Did you give Tress midnight spores?” Ulaam asked. “Nope!” I said. “Good,” Ulaam replied. “I was worried that—” “I gave them to Weev!” I said, excited. (In my defense, I’d thought them a kind of licorice.) Ulaam sighed, folding his arms. Tress couldn’t help wondering if that squished the ear on his forearm, and what it felt like. “Tress,” the surgeon said, “midnight spores are a very different kind of dangerous from the others. They need a persistent living source of water—in the form of the one who germinates them.” “Like what
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has happened to the captain?” “Yes,” Ulaam said. “But temporary, in this case.” “But what do they do?” “They create midnight aether,” Ulaam said. “Also called Midnight Essence: a blob of goo that will imitate a nearby object or entity. The aether stays under your control for as long as you sustain it. It is more practical than many of the other spore creations—but also more nefarious. If you practice with it…” He paused, eyeing her. “When you practice with it, have a great deal of water nearby to drink, along with a silver knife. Most sprouters use midnight aether for spying, but be careful of creating a blob larger than about the size of your fist. So, four or five grains maximum. If your creation is too large, it is more likely to escape your control.” “I…barely understood half of what you said, Ulaam,” she said. “Half? Why, I knew you were smart. Your brain—” “—is not for sale,” Tress said. “Oh!” I said. “You can have mine! It keeps trying to tell me that dirty socks aren’t an acceptable strainer for pasta, and if that’s true, I do not want to think about it.” Ulaam grinned, then plucked a little notebook from the inside pocket of his suit coat and began writing. “I’m recording the most embarrassing ones,” he said at Tress’s confused glance, “to share with him once he’s better. I suspect I can milk this for decades.” He did. “Hoid,” Tress said, “I need to find out how to get to the Sorceress. You were there, with her. Can you guide me, or tell me how to cross the Midnight Sea?” “He’s not going to be of any help as long as he’s under that curse, Tress,” Ulaam said. “You’ll need to break it.” “But how?” she asked. “You don’t know. Who would?” My face grew thoughtful. During that time period, normally that would mean I was contemplating whether occasionally biting my cheek technically made me a cannibal. But today I was actually thinking about what Tress was saying. For once it managed to sink in. “I can talk,” I told her softly, “but I can’t say anything. I can tell you that you should always wear white to someone else’s wedding.” “Which is talking but saying nothing. Nothing relevant, at least, about the curse.” “Right! Now, this is important. You need to find someone who can talk and say things.” “That describes a lot of people,” Tress said. It was a struggle. The curse tied my tongue and brain in knots. I literally couldn’t say too much. “Find…a person…who isn’t a…a person,” I said. “And can talk…when they…should not.” Tress cocked her head. Ulaam stepped closer. “That was more coherent than anything he’s managed in months, Tress. I believe he’s saying something important.” “It sounds like gibberish. I think he’s toying with me.” “Hmmm. If that’s so, then it’s remarkably like he used to be. A person who isn’t a person? And who can talk when they should not…” Tress frowned at me, pondering with that blessedly
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thoughtful mind of hers. Then it clicked. “A talking animal?” she guessed. I flopped to the ground, letting out a relieved sigh. I was soon lost in thought, trying to decide if cobblers were also good at making desserts, or if that was merely a coincidence. “Ah!” Ulaam said, clapping his hands—then cringing at the sound so close to one of his ears. “That must be it. He’s telling you to locate a familiar.” “A what?” “Powerful users of Investiture—magic, if you prefer—are often associated with talking animals. I’ve noticed you have similar lore in your world. Is it not so?” “I suppose,” Tress said, thinking back to nursery stories. “I’ll admit,” Ulaam said, rolling up his sleeve again and getting out a scalpel, “that on some worlds, my own species is the cause of these rumors. I don’t think that is the case here, however, nor do I think they are the result of an Awakener’s arts. Likely, the Sorceress and others like her have found ways to Invest common animals to enhance their cognitive abilities.” “Are you even speaking Klisian?” Tress asked. “Technically yes, though I’m using Connection to translate my thoughts, which are in a language you’ve never heard of. Regardless, Hoid seems to think you’ll be able to find a familiar—a talking animal, if you will. Such an animal would very likely be connected to the Sorceress in some way. Familiars are usually small creatures, used in spying. Birds. The occasional feline…” “Or a rat,” Tress said softly. “Indeed.” Ulaam proceeded to cut the ear off his forearm. Tress was out the door before he could offer it to her. She found Huck in her cabin, sitting on the bed, alternating between chewing on a stale crust of bread and reading one of Weev’s books: a notebook detailing the use of verdant spores. She’d left it on the bed, and it looked like Huck had nibbled on the corner of the book between bites of crust—though whether that was intentional or due to some ratty instinct, she could not guess. “You’ve been lying to me,” Tress said, shutting the door. Huck crouched down, his eyes darting from side to side, seeking the best place to hide. “Why didn’t you tell me you were a familiar?” Tress demanded. “Uh…” Huck said. “Were you a companion to the Sorceress? Do you know about her? About how to reach her island? Have you been hiding that all this time?” “Huh.” Huck sat up on his haunches, nose twitching. “I am…yes, I am a familiar, which is why I can talk. How did you find out?” “Hoid,” Tress said, gesturing in the direction of the ship’s surgery. “It was difficult for him to speak through the curse, but he gave me enough clues to put it together. Huck, why didn’t you tell me?” “I didn’t want to lead you into danger,” Huck said. “The Sorceress is a horrible person, Tress. You shouldn’t want to know anything more about her, and you definitely shouldn’t be trying to get to her island.” Tress stalked
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over to the bed and knelt beside it, at eye level with the rat. “You,” she said, “are going to tell me everything you know about the Sorceress. Or else.” “Or else what?” he squeaked. “Or else”—she took a deep breath, nervous, as she’d never made a threat as dire as this in her life—“I will stop talking to you.” “…You won’t throw me overboard or something?” “What?” she asked, horrified. “No! That would be awful!” “Tress, you make a terrible pirate.” “Please, Huck,” she said, “tell me what you know. Can you guide me to the Sorceress’s island?” He considered, then began to speak, but cut off. He rubbed his head with his paw. “No,” he said. “I can’t, Tress. I’m not what you think I am. I’m…not a familiar. Well, I guess I kind of am, but not in the way you’re thinking. My whole family can talk. I grew up on a lonely island far, far from the Sorceress’s realm.” “So you’re what? A descendant of familiars?” “A good explanation,” he said, then sighed. “If you really want to get to the Sorceress, your best bet is to break Hoid’s curse. I can’t lead you to her. About that, I’m telling you the truth. I promise.” “Can you at least help me break Hoid’s curse?” He thought for a moment. “I… Maybe? I mean, I’m not supposed to talk about this. But so long as it’s about Hoid… All right, so here’s the problem. The Sorceress’s magic forbids a person from talking about the specifics of their curse.” “I knew that already,” she said. “But I’ve heard—from my family, you see—that one can sometimes get a cursed person to reveal things anyway. The curses aren’t alive; they are static, like the rules in a contract. That means, despite how much work the Sorceress puts into them, every curse has holes.” “I don’t understand,” Tress said, still kneeling beside the bed. “All right,” Huck said, “let’s pretend you had a friend who was cursed. If you went to them and said, ‘Are you cursed?’ they wouldn’t be able to say yes. But the fact that they can’t is itself kind of a confirmation, you know? So in a way, you’ve tricked the curse into giving you new information.” “But how does that relate to undoing the curse?” “Every cursed person hears the spell being said, and therefore knows the method of their salvation. The Sorceress…Tress, she’s evil. Sadistic. When she curses someone, she wants them to know the path to their freedom, then not be able to tell anyone.” “That sounds horrendous,” Tress said, again glancing toward where she’d left Hoid. “Yeah,” Huck said. “I warned you. Look, even talking about her is dangerous. You shouldn’t keep trying to get to her.” “I’m going,” she said. “So I can either go armed with your information, or I can go ignorantly and be more likely to die. Your choice, Huck.” “Ouch. No need to step on the trap after it’s already around my neck, Tress. I’m trying to help, but there’s
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not a lot I can say. You have to find a way to circumvent the curse. Like…assume you asked that friend, ‘How do I undo your curse?’ once you know there is a curse. That friend won’t be able to tell you. “But say you told your friend a story about someone else who was cured of their curse, and asked, ‘What do you think?’ They might be able to talk to you about the story, since it’s about someone else—and therefore not about their specific situation. You might be able to sneak useful information out.” “That sounds like it would involve a lot of guesswork,” Tress said. “And confusion.” “And frustration. And pain. Yeah. But it’s all I have for you, Tress. I’m not an expert. I think you should focus on keeping yourself alive, not on this mad quest to visit the Sorceress. Crow has it in for you. I can feel it.” “I thought that at first too,” Tress said, letting herself be distracted. She needed time to process what he’d said before pushing him further anyway. “But Crow has turned around. She seems happy to have me on board.” “And that doesn’t worry you more?” Huck asked. “Now that you mention it…I should be suspicious, shouldn’t I?” “Sporefalls, yes,” Huck said. “I mean, Crow eats bullets, hates everyone, is determined to give her own crew a death sentence. Yet she—casually—has decided she wants you to stay on board. For reasons.” Tress shivered. “We might need you to spy on her again.” “Uh…” Huck wrung his paws a little, then started nibbling on the book again. “Stop that!” “Sorry,” he said as she snatched it away. “Chewing makes me feel better. I will spy on her if you want, Tress. But…I mean, I don’t think I’m very good at it. Last time I’m sure they spotted me. That porthole has been kept tightly closed ever since. Plus there’s the cat...” Tress tapped her finger on the book. The captain was wily, and even Hoid—an obvious idiot (ouch)—had figured out Huck was a familiar. A girl spending time with a rat that seemed too well-trained? Crow probably had her suspicions as well. But perhaps there was another way. What was it Ulaam had said about midnight spores? They were useful in spying… She was interrupted by a knock on her door. Tress glanced at Huck, who—with an abundance of caution—grabbed his bread crust in his mouth and hid under the bed. When Tress answered the door, she found Salay standing outside. “Tress,” the helmswoman said, “we need to talk about who you really are.” Salay wanted to know who she really was. Unfortunately, that was a topic of some confusion to Tress herself. In her youth, she’d thought she understood who she was. Now she was sailing with pirates and learning to use spores. She found herself demanding answers of Ulaam, and not caring if it was polite. She wasn’t even certain she was Tress anymore, or if she’d become someone else. You could say, in other words, that her
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state at the moment was distress. “Well?” Salay asked. Tress didn’t have a lot of experience with lying, but paradoxically, the ones who are most successful at it are those who don’t do it very often. So when Tress remained quiet but stepped back and gestured for Salay to come in, it was exactly the right thing to do. Salay hesitated. Despite her no-nonsense attitude, she was nervous about entering a sprouter’s room. You got used to the idea of silver being around. It let you ignore, to some extent, the spores—like how you can usually ignore your nose always being in view. Or like how people ignore the existential horror that comes from knowing their body is slowly deteriorating every day, time itself marching them toward oblivion to the cadence of their beating hearts. However, although Salay might have been short of both stature and temper, she wasn’t short on grit. She stepped into the room and shut the door, heroically enduring the chill that ran up her spine and the goosebumps that rose on her arms. “Would you like some tea?” Tress said, getting out two cups. A charming matched pair of a light pale porcelain with silver on the rims. “It’s delightfully lukewarm.” “Er, no,” Salay said. “Look, I know you aren’t who you’re pretending to be.” “I’m just a girl trying not to get tossed overboard.” “Yeah, no,” Salay said, folding her arms. “I’m not buying the act any longer, Tress.” This made Tress a little annoyed. “What do you want me to say?” Tress asked, in a rare bout of pique. “I’ve already admitted that I stole this coat. Other than that I’m an insignificant girl from an insignificant island. There’s nothing remarkable about me.” “Oh? An ‘unremarkable’ girl who just happens to be unafraid of spores? Who just happens to be made our sprouter after only a couple of days on the crew?” “I’m terrified of spores!” Tress said, for once not caring if she was being discourteous. “I needed a job on the ship, and this was the only one available!” Salay leaned forward, studying Tress. “Moon of veils, you’re so good at this. I don’t see a hint of a tell that you’re lying.” “Because I’m not lying! Look, if you don’t believe me, then what do you think I am?” “A royal inspector,” Salay said, “in disguise.” “This,” Tress said, gesturing to her inspector’s coat, “is a disguise?” “It’s a clever plan, I’ll admit,” Salay said. “You knew we’d instantly suspect a newcomer. But of course, an inspector would be the last person to wear one of those! Except when they’re being an inspector. So you knew by wearing it, we’d naturally assume you weren’t one.” “That is,” Tress said, “an interesting thought process…” “Yes,” Salay said. “I’ll admit, I wouldn’t have pieced it together if I hadn’t discovered that Crow gave you a chance to flee the ship, and you didn’t take it.” Oh. “About that,” Tress said, “I simply didn’t want to abandon you all. Look, I’m not lying. I’m not
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an inspector.” Salay narrowed her eyes. “Yeah? And what about what you did to the cannonballs?” Tress froze. “Aha!” Salay said. “You didn’t expect me to know about that, did you? I watched Laggart’s reaction when that ship didn’t sink today. He wanted to kill those people, though I haven’t figured out why. I do know you’re the only one who had access to his munitions to sabotage his attempt.” Moon of mercy, Tress thought. If she figured it out…maybe Laggart and Captain Crow have as well. She should have known she couldn’t fool such an experienced crew. Tress sat down on her bed, disturbed. Salay was wrong about her, but the helmswoman…she’d stood up to Captain Crow. She’d prevented a massacre. If Tress was going to trust anyone on this ship, she decided, it should be Salay. “I found out the captain wanted to sink ships,” Tress said, “to make you all into deadrunners. She wants you to obey her unfailingly. Even with her powers, she must fear a mutiny.” Salay leaned down, small tight curls of black hair falling around the sides of her face. “A common girl—as you’re pretending to be—figured out Captain Crow’s plot?” “By accident,” Tress said. “Really, Salay. I have no idea what I’m doing.” “Let’s assume I believe you,” Salay said. “And accept that you’re not an inspector. Can you prove what you said about the captain?” “There are false bottoms in the gunnery barrels,” Tress said. “Laggart keeps sabotaged cannonballs in there. I swapped them for ordinary ones so he couldn’t sink any more ships. I have the ones I took out, but I don’t know if that will prove anything. It’s my word against his.” “I don’t need you to confront him about it,” Salay said, beginning to pace. “We merely need to get others in the crew to agree to take action. I’ve organized a meeting with Ann and Fort later tonight. If you brought one of those cannonballs, that might be proof enough for them. They’re already suspicious of the captain’s motives, and…” Salay stopped, then walked back to Tress. “And you just manipulated me into telling you about our secret meeting! Damn you’re good.” Tress sighed. Salay held her eyes again. “Cold as ice. With a heart of unyielding steel.” “Really?” Tress asked. “That’s what you get from my expression?” “Indeed,” Salay said. “Behind the fake fear and confusion you’re trying to use to distract me. But I believe you on one thing: you’re no royal inspector.” “Oh?” “You’re far too clever for one of them,” Salay said. “You must be a King’s Mask!” Oh. That explained everything. Or, Tress assumed it would, if she knew what on the twelve seas a “King’s Mask” was. “Everyone knows the King’s Masks must lie when asked what they are,” Salay said, putting her hands on her hips. “To protect their secret missions. So I won’t try to get you to confirm it. Will you bring one of those cannonballs tonight?” “If you think it will persuade the others,” Tress said, “then I
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will.” She wasn’t certain what any of them could do against someone like Crow, but it would be good to talk about the things she’d discovered. “Great,” Salay said. “Meeting is in the quartermaster’s room after second evening mess, when night watch is called.” She started toward the door, then hesitated. “Please don’t assassinate anyone before then.” With that, she was out the door. Tress sat back on her bed, stunned, as Huck emerged. “So, King’s Mask, eh?” he said. “You sure had me fooled.” “I—” “That was a joke,” he said, nibbling on his stale bread crust again. “I’m guessing you don’t even know what they are.” “Not a clue.” “Secret assassin group,” Huck said. “Maintained by the king to carry out important missions. Supposedly, there are never more than five at a time. They are the elite of the elite.” “And she thinks an eighteen-year-old girl happens to be one.” “The Masks supposedly take youth potions to disguise their ages,” Huck said. “But…it’s possible they don’t really exist, and the king encourages the rumors to make people fear him. “Don’t blame Salay. People on ships like this one hover at the edges of the law, even when they’re not pirates. Someone like Salay lives her entire life full of suspicion. She’s not dumb; she’s just not accustomed to dealing with someone so genuine. It’s like you speak an entirely different language.” “I’ll need to convince her of the truth,” Tress said. “Somehow.” She found it physically painful to know someone thought she was an assassin. “I don’t know if I’d go to that meeting, if I were you,” Huck said. “Captain Crow is suspicious of Salay and the others. I think she’s planning to kill them.” “What? How do you know?” “When I spied on them for you the other day? I caught a little bit about ‘secret meetings’ and ‘being rid of them finally.’ That was before they got to the juicy stuff I told you.” That sounded bad to Tress, but also too vague. She stood up again, pacing through her small quarters, listening to the scrape of spores on the hull outside. “We don’t know enough, Huck. We don’t know why the captain wants to make the others into deadrunners. I mean, she wants to order them to do something dangerous, but why?” “Yeah,” Huck said. “I’m baffled too. Reminds me of a friend of mine. He was a character, I tell you. Once, he was offered cheese—by the way, we don’t like cheese as much as people think. Wonder how the rumor started. Anyway—” “I think,” Tress said gently, “we should stay focused, Huck. We need more information about the captain.” Huck dropped his crust. “Okay, I suppose,” he said. “I mean, if you really want me to…” Tress immediately felt guilty, remembering his earlier objections. She had no right to ask him to put his life in danger. “Never mind,” she said, tucking an unruly strand of hair behind her ear. “I think there’s another way.” She looked in the secret compartment under the bed,
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then brought out the little box full of midnight spores. “Tress…” Huck said. “What are you doing?” “I’m completely out of my element, Huck,” she said. “I’m just a girl with a fondness for cups. I have no special training, no special experience. I can’t outmaneuver Crow unless I use the resources I have.” She held up the box. “My only real advantage seems to be the fact that I’m slightly less terrified of spores than everyone else.” “Yeah, but midnight spores? Shouldn’t we…you know…work our way up to something like that? You don’t start by running a full regalthon. You jog a little first.” “A what?” “Regalthon,” he said. “Forty-mile race, held every year on the king’s birthday.” “Forty miles?” Tress said, fishing in the various drawers in Weev’s cabinet. Hadn’t she seen a silver knife in here? “They’d run out of land and fall off the island if they raced that far. Do they go in circles?” “Oh, Tress,” he said, “most islands aren’t the size of the Rock, you know.” “Really?” she said. She pulled the knife out of the drawer. “You mean there are some that are forty miles wide?” “And bigger,” he said. “I think one over in the Zephyr Sea is sixty miles across.” “Moons!” she said, trying to imagine that much land in one place. Why, in the center, you might not be able to see the sea at all! She shook her head at the crazy thought and pulled out a few waterskins. After that she knelt by the bed, picked out three black spores, and set them on the mattress. Huck backed away, towing his crust of bread. She took a deep breath and thought of Charlie. She could do this. For him, and for the people of the Crow’s Song. Solve the mysteries on this ship, protect the people here, and they would point her in Charlie’s direction. She raised an eyedropper and released a drop onto the spores. I assume you have no idea what a Luhel bond is. Don’t feel bad. At this point in the story, I was concerned with trying to figure out how many different shades of orange I could wear at the same time. So we all have our priorities. Most aether spores—like the verdant spores and the zephyr spores—don’t involve any kind of bond. Using them is a simple matter of cause and effect. Compressed aether drops to the planet in the form of spores, and a little water encourages it to grow in an explosive burst. Midnight spores are different—in fact, they’re closer to how the aethers are supposed to work. Bringing midnight spores to life creates a temporary bond, a kind of symbiosis between host and aether. Unlike the Nahel bond, which trades in consciousness and anchoring to reality, the Luhel bond trades in physical matter. In this case, water. Tress felt it as a sudden thirst, a drying of her mouth. She reached for the waterskin, then paused, transfixed by the motions of the spores. They bubbled and undulated, melting and then
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enlarging like an inflating balloon. In seconds the puddle of goo—though it had begun as three tiny spores—was as large as a person’s fist. There it stopped growing, blessedly, though it continued to writhe and distort. For a moment a tiny face appeared— stretching out of the black pus. Then it melted back in. Offer, a thought impressed on Tress’s mind. Trade. Water. Give water. Without knowing what she was doing, Tress agreed. Midnight Essence, in all its different forms, looks for a pattern, a model. It often takes a cue from its creator or host—and in this case Tress glanced at Huck, who had backed all the way across the bed to the far corner, clutching his crust of bread before him like a somewhat-snacked-upon shield. The Midnight Essence pulsed with purpose, elongating. It formed a black tail. Four paws. A face and snout…a body like a deformed tuber. Soon Tress found herself regarding a small creature that looked almost like a rat dipped in black paint. Except the hair seemed more a texture to the skin than individual hairs, and there wasn’t enough detail on the toes and the face. It was too smooth. Jet black and glossy, as if made of tar. Or carved from a tub of lard by a talented artist with no other way to express themself. It scurried back and forth across the bed, trying out its legs—and again, the motions were almost ratlike. Though her thirst was increasing—and strangely, her eyes were beginning to feel dry—Tress couldn’t stop watching it. She took a drink—and found herself slurping down the entire waterskin. She hadn’t thought there would be enough room in her stomach, but once she was refreshed, the Luhel bond strengthened. She’d given it what it wanted, and in so doing gained some measure of control over it. She lost sight of the world around her, her vision fuzzing. Then she was the not-rat. She could direct it, see through its eyes, smell what it smelled. She immediately made the thing jump toward Huck, who squeaked and ran under the bed. It was fun for reasons she couldn’t explain. But no, she had work to do. Yes, important work that involved scampering across the bed and leaping onto the floor. When she hit, her feet squished into her body, and she had to pop them out again. After that, she scrambled to the door and squeezed under, coming out as goo that oozed back into shape. Shadows. She liked shadows. Down here, in these corridors below-decks, she could move virtually unseen. Even on the steps, the shadows were deep. But up above, the sun was out from behind the moon. Hateful sun, though it was slinking toward the horizon, drowsy, unaware of her. Midnight Tress crouched on the steps, listening to the footfalls of the people, smelling the old leather of their shoes. There. A shadow from the mast as the ship turned. She leaped into it, then ran along its length—jumping over the veins of silver in the deck. It would hurt her
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if she touched it, she knew, but she was stronger in this shape than common spores. Mere proximity wouldn’t harm her. She reached the captain’s cabin, which occupied the space directly underneath the quarterdeck. She definitely shouldn’t have been able to squeeze under that tiny gap between door and deck, but she did. The reinflation took longer this time, but her eyes re-formed faster than the rest of her, and she was able to scan the room. Crow sat at her desk by the porthole, writing something by the waning light of the setting sun. Her hat hung on a peg by the door, her canteen was open next to her, and she wore her jacket unbuttoned. As soon as her feet were back, Midnight Tress scrambled into the deeper shadows beneath a bench. Crow smelled wrong. Of rotten weeds, and burning flesh, and something else Midnight Tress couldn’t identify. The other humans smelled of sweat and sweet flesh. Not Crow. Crow wasn’t a person, not entirely. The parasite was winning. Midnight Tress realized she should have waited. Waited until Crow and Laggart were meeting. She should have planned. But plans…plans were things for people who didn’t exist yet. And Tress existed now. What was that little book Crow was writing in? Midnight Tress inched closer. Could she keep to the shadows enough that she could read the book? She craned her neck, looking up from the floor, trying to see. But the angle was all wrong. Could she… No. No, she’d have to get right up beside Crow to look at the book. She felt excited and eager in this body, but…but even in darkness, she wasn’t invisible. Just a little closer. She could get a little closer. With effort, Tress held herself back. It was like trying to keep from eating when ravenous. She wanted to do what she wanted. Didn’t she? No. No… Crow would leave soon. Evening mess. She’d go like she always did, get food, and then return. Wait. Wait. WAIT. The call went up. Crow shut her book, took a long drink from her canteen, then stood. She took her hat off the peg, went out the door, then locked it behind her. Now! Midnight Tress scrambled out of the shadows. She climbed up the table leg with claws too sharp for her otherwise soft and malleable body. Then she sprang onto the top of the table, so eager to reach the book that her feet twisted and distorted as she ran, extra nubs of more legs growing like tumors at her sides. She reached the book and bit it, pulling it open to the page that Crow had left marked. And inside was…words? Words that smelled of dust. Dusty, dirty, boring, stupid, melty, inky words. Why words? Why had she been so eager? Words. Read the words. She didn’t want to, but she did anyway, growing her eyes larger until they bulged from her face—taking in more, making the details more distinct. Many of the words looked printed by some device. But written in the
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margins, in what she assumed was Crow’s handwriting, were notes. A way to be rid of them, finally? the note said. A way to banish the spores from my blood? Curious. Midnight Tress focused on the text. Stupid words. Stupid sawdust-in-the-eyes words. Why? She should find something to bite, something that bled warmth and liquid salt. She fought with herself, writhing, her shape bubbling and squirming. She almost ripped herself apart in her anger. But she won, finally, and forced herself into the ragged rat shape. She bit pages, moving back through the book. She passed other notes from Crow, but most didn’t draw her attention—until she saw two words that stuck in her mind from what Huck had said earlier. Secret meetings with Weev indicated there should be a way to find the proper location. Too bad he turned to blackmail. Ah well. At least he showed some spine before I killed him. That didn’t explain what Xisis was. She flipped through more pages to find the start of the chapter. What was this thing that could cure diseases? An herb? A potion? No, a being. The dragon. Crow thought the dragon was real. And she wanted to force her crew to sail the Crimson Sea to find the dragon and heal her affliction. It was the first thing she’d discovered about Crow that made perfect sense. Midnight Tress needed to know more. How did one find the dragon? She’d heard he granted wishes— everyone had heard those stories—but surely there was more to it. Was locating the dragon enough, or did you have to pay him? But no. Words were splinters for the eyes. Stupid, useless, bloodless, saltless, flavorless, screamless words were over. No more. The fight began again and her form disintegrated. Mush on the desk, slapping itself and writhing. Footsteps. Fighting against the one who wanted words and the not of the will of being again the words. Footsteps outside. No no no no no no no no no obey. Crow was returning. Key in the lock. Had to— In a flash and a burst of black smoke, Tress was cast out into her own body. She found her mouth parched, dry like it was full of sand. She couldn’t recognize the feel of her own tongue, now like a lump of cloth, and her hands were withered before her. She had collapsed sideways on the bed, and when she tried to speak she let out only a croak. “Tress!” Huck said, squatting before her face. “Tress!” He held the silver knife awkwardly in his paws. “There was a line of darkness coming out of your mouth. I didn’t know what to do, but you were coughing and…” “Water,” she managed to force out. She reached toward the second waterskin. Huck scrambled over and grabbed it in his teeth, pulling it toward her. She managed to dump it into her mouth. As soon as it touched her tongue, her mouth burned. She kept drinking through the pain, choking on the water, forcing it down a throat that was
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dry as parchment. After that she lay on the wet mattress, wheezing. If she had been that dehydrated normally, she would undoubtedly have died, but this was no normal effect. Timely application of liquid reversed the process, reinflating her twig arms as the burning in her mouth and throat faded. She slumped back, enjoying the sensation of not being in pain, and thought about what she’d learned. That led her to worry. Would Crow find remnants of the midnight spores? As Tress had broken free from the bond, she thought she’d felt her body evaporating into black smoke. Had that left residue? “Tress?” Huck asked. “Are…you all right?” “Yes,” she said, her voice hoarse. She pushed her hair away from her face, as it had escaped its tail in her thrashing. “You might have saved my life, Huck. Thank you.” “Well, I guess we’re even now,” he said. “I’d be at the bottom of the Verdant Sea if you hadn’t let me out of that cage.” He was still wringing his paws, so Tress forced herself to sit up and show him a smile. But moon of menace, she could feel a monster of a headache coming on. Perhaps she’d be better off leaving midnight spores alone in the future. Nevertheless, she knew what Captain Crow wanted. And—though she couldn’t be certain—it seemed the things that Huck had overheard hadn’t been about Salay and the others. The “secret meetings” had been with Weev, and “getting rid of them” referred to the spores in her blood. Perhaps Salay, Ann, and Fort would know what to do. Tress waited to see if Crow would come barreling in, furious about being spied upon. When that didn’t happen, Tress took a luxurious bath, then dressed and prepared to attend the secret meeting. Hopefully the others wouldn’t be too angry at her when they found out she wasn’t a King’s Mask. Tress, of course, underestimated the human mind’s ability to believe whatever the hell it wants. “I’ve found a way for us to escape our predicament,” Salay said, then gestured at Tress. “Behold our liberator.” Tress froze, her hand still on the door to the quartermaster’s office, which she’d just shut. She hadn’t expected to be put on the spot the moment she stepped in. “Um…” she began. “She can’t confirm it, of course,” Salay said, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “But I’m confident she is a King’s Mask.” Fort held up his sign. Not to be a contrarian, Salay, but I sincerely doubt that’s the case. “Yeah,” Ann said. “I’m with him. Tress is great and all, but she’s obviously a girl from a backwater island.” “The entire point of the King’s Masks is that they seem innocent,” Salay said. “How many girls from backwater islands have you seen walk on the sea? Then cling to the outside of a ship at sail?” Fort and Ann studied her, and Tress blushed beneath their scrutiny. “I was desperate,” she said. “I just did what I had to in order to survive.” It IS a little
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suspicious, Fort wrote, how you almost immediately ended up as ship’s sprouter. “Right?” Salay said. “She’s not afraid of spores.” “I’m very afraid of spores,” Tress corrected. “And she could have fled the ship at Shimmerbay,” Salay said, “but chose to remain so she could keep an eye on Crow. She admitted as much to me earlier.” Tress sighed. “I…don’t want to impose, Salay. But I think you’re misinterpreting what I said.” “Wait,” Ann said. “Salay, you’re acting like this is a good thing. If she were a King’s Mask, then she’d kill us all. We’re outlaws now.” “Ah,” Salay said, holding up a finger. “But she knows we aren’t complicit in killing anyone.” Technically, we are, Fort wrote, looking morose. We turned pirate, then people died. Doesn’t matter that we didn’t shoot the cannon. We’re responsible for those poor people’s deaths. The small room grew quiet. Fort sat on his stool behind the counter, shoulders wide enough that they nearly touched both walls at once. He wore suspenders, as the last seven belts he'd tried to wear had given up on the spot—and I have it on good authority he’s been ordered by judicial mandate to stay at least thirty feet from any others as a judgment for past brutality. Ann sat on the counter by the wall, swinging her legs. She seemed intensely interested in a knot in the floorboards, but in reality she was haunted by Fort’s words. They were all culpable. Everyone except Tress. Salay stepped toward the others, away from the door. “See, that’s why it’s important that she is a Mask. The only way for us to survive after being named deadrunners is to have an agent of the king vouch for us.” She looked to Tress, pleading in her eyes. “That’s why she could be our liberator. She could tell the king we meant well. That we tried to stop Crow. It’s a way out. Isn’t it?” Tress had seen Salay as stern, straightforward. Like a firm handshake in human form. But right now, there was fear in her dark eyes. And pain. Moon of mercy, it was difficult to hear her plea and deny it. Fort and Ann both looked to Tress, a spark of hope in their eyes as well. Huck was right. These people weren’t fools. They weren’t idiots for hoping Tress was something more than the girl she appeared to be. They simply wanted there to be a chance. Tress’s mouth went dry again, though not from abusing aethers this time. There was a way for her to prove she wasn’t a Mask. She merely had to say she was one. Incongruently, this would prove she wasn’t one, assuming Salay was right and Masks weren’t allowed to admit to their station. But saying that would stomp out their last light of hope. Doing so felt…cruel. Like kicking a kitten. No. Like strapping dynamite to a kitten, then seeing how high you could get the head to fly. Tress couldn’t say it. They wanted it so much. She in turn was desperate
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for them to get what they wanted. So instead she changed the subject. She reached into her satchel and took out a cannonball. “I took this,” she said, “from a secret compartment in one of Laggart’s gunnery barrels.” Salay looked to the other two and pointedly folded her arms, as if to say, See? Fort took the cannonball and balanced it in his palm, his curled fingers against it and the other knuckles holding it steady. He rolled it from one palm to the other, then set it on the counter. He got out a chisel and a hammer, holding them each in his unique way, and gingerly tapped the cannonball in a few specific places. He was then able to hold it down with one palm and twist so the two halves came apart. Inside, normally one would have found an explosive charge of zephyr spores and the fuse system to burst the cannonball. (We’ll get to the specifics later.) Each ball had a number printed on the outside, the seconds until the secondary detonation—which would launch out a spray of water. In this case, the charge had been replaced by a wadded cloth, the water in the hollow center filled with lead shot. “Rigged,” Ann said, “to sink a ship, not capture it. Moon of justice, Salay. You’re right. The cap’n made us deadrunners on purpose!” I knew something was off about all this, Fort said, holding up his sign. You knew it too, Ann. “Yeah, but to see it…” Ann said. “How’d you get this without getting caught, Tress?” “It wasn’t hard,” she said. “Nobody wants to go near the charges.” “But how did you even find them?” Ann asked, poking at the dissected cannonball. “I, um, have experience with barrels and hidden compartments.” Salay gave her a sly glance and a knowing smile. My question is WHY? Fort wrote. What does the captain gain by this? We were already pirates. Killing people instead of looting them makes no sense. “Yeah,” Salay said. “That’s the conundrum.” Tress hesitated, then sighed. She had to tell them. “I overheard the captain speaking to Laggart. She was afraid that unless you were wanted criminals—facing death on any island where you tried to flee—you wouldn’t be loyal enough.” “Well, she’s right about that,” Ann said. “Until that ship sank, I was thinkin’ about findin’ a way off.” You “overheard” the captain speaking to Laggart? Fort wrote. How? They never speak their secrets out in the open. “They weren’t out in the open,” Tress said. “They were in her cabin.” All three looked at her, and she realized her mistake. Moon of mercy. She shouldn’t have come to this meeting with a splitting headache. “You were able to spy on the cap’n,” Ann said, “in her cabin while she was speaking conspiratorially to her first officer about her secret plans to betray her crew?” “Er. Yes.” The words hung in the air for a moment before Ann plucked them and chowed down. “Awfully good at espionage for a girl from a backwater island, aren’t
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you?” “Just lucky,” Tress said, then tried to move on quickly. “Look, I’m worried the captain will try to sink more ships. Swapping the cannonballs helped prevent more deaths today, but I think she wants to murder at least one more crew to get you all on board. I mean, metaphorically on board. With her plan. Since, you know.” She gestured to the ship. “I agree with the Mask,” Salay said. “Today was too close. We’ve got enough blood on our hands. We need to find a way to deal with Crow permanently.” That could take time, Fort wrote. First, I think we should find a way to quench her bloodthirst. “She’s not exactly the quenchable type,” Ann said, “if you haven’t noticed. I think we just need to get her away from where she can do damage.” What if, Fort wrote, we were to persuade her to sail a different sea? One without so many people on it. That way we’d run into fewer innocents she could hurt. “True,” Salay said, “but we’d have to get to the Crimson Sea or—worse—the Midnight Sea. But there’s no way we’d persuade the captain to do that. She wants to be where the ships are plentiful.” “Actually,” Tress said, “I’m pretty sure she’d agree to sail the Crimson Sea.” “Nah,” Ann said. “The cap’n’s got too healthy a sense of self-preservation. We’d never persuade her…” She trailed off, looking at Tress, and narrowed her eyes. “At least, no normal crewmember could persuade her of such a crazy idea.” “I think it will be easy,” Tress said, uncomfortable. “Salay, you should suggest it.” “After what I did earlier?” Salay said. “Captain wants an excuse to hang me right now. If I asked her to sail the Crimson, she’d toss me overboard for sure.” “Do you really think you can convince her, Tress?” Ann asked. Now, Tress wanted to tell them about what she’d learned: that Crow planned to sail the Crimson and get herself cured. And…it occurred to her that if the captain got healed, everyone would win. The crew wouldn’t have to be afraid of a spore eater, Crow would live, and maybe they could all stop being pirates somehow. But if Tress were to explain how she knew what she knew, she was certain the others would be convinced she was a King’s Mask. Overhearing the captain was one thing. But admitting to having somehow stolen her private writings? So, instead of explaining, Tress nodded. “I’ll do it. I’m certain I can make her agree to sail the Crimson. The rest of you can focus on the long-term plan: a way to take the ship back from her.” So long as those spores are in her blood, Fort wrote, she’ll be immune to anything we could do to her. “Um, pretend she won’t have those anymore,” Tress said. “Assume her powers will be negated in the near future. By…um…something completely unrelated to me.” All three of them took another opportunity to stare at her. “Right, right,” Salay said, ushering Tress out the door.
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“We’ll do that. You get her to sail the Crimson. If she agrees to it, I’m confident I can get the Dougs to go along with the idea too. Most of them are as upset at the killings as we are.” Then, in a whispered tone, Salay added, “Just remember our deal. Put in a good word for us with the king. Convince him we didn’t want any of this and tell him we helped you stop her. All right?” “Salay,” Tress said. “I’m really not—” “I know,” Salay said. “You can’t admit it. How about this. If you happen to have a chance to speak to the king on our behalf, can you promise me you’ll take it?” “I suppose,” Tress said. “Good enough,” Salay said. “And good luck.” Tress found the captain on the top deck, leaning against the rail at the bow of the ship as she poured water from her canteen into a nice tin cup and gazed toward the setting sun that seared the horizon. Tress stepped up, and at that moment the seethe stopped. Doug, the night helmsman, called for the furling of the sails, and the ship scraped to a halt. It was a quiet beast, slumbering to the gentle sounds of wind on spore and canvas. Each time the ship stopped, the world felt suddenly out of step with its own music. There was no motion to compensate for, and the air was too quiet. The gentle grinding of spores was normally so constant that its lack became unnatural. Even the deck grew quiet as the Dougs went below to grab a snack and play cards until the seethe returned. The captain didn’t acknowledge Tress. She drank the water from her cup, then dangled it from her index finger, staring toward the sun. As if she were a celestial executioner, sent to make certain the day rightly expired. Tress didn’t speak up immediately. The captain had made it clear she wasn’t to be interrupted when enjoying a drink. Tress just hoped the woman wouldn’t toss the cup into the ocean when she was done. Yes, it was utilitarian in design, but so was Tress herself. She’d hate to have either be wasted. The Verdant Moon watched overhead, covering a good third of the sky. I’ve often found it odd how little the people of the spore seas look at their moons. When I first arrived on the planet, I couldn’t help staring. There is a malevolence to the way they hover so close. Where most planetary moons stick to the walls and wait for an invitation to dance, these are already on the floor—and they are wearing sequins. “Why are you here, Tress?” Crow finally asked. Tress deliberated. If she outright asked Crow to go to the Crimson Sea, the woman would undoubtedly be suspicious. “Well,” Tress said. “I wanted to discuss something.” “That’s not what I meant,” Crow said. “I want to know why you are here on these oceans. What do you want?” As if that were a simple question to answer.
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People generally don’t know what they want, though they almost uniformly hate being told what it should be. Plus, Tress had lived her entire life feeling she shouldn’t ask for the things she wanted. “I left my island to see the world,” she said. “People often say that about becoming a sailor,” Crow said. “It’s a pretty little aphorism, isn’t it? With a dainty bow. Travel the seas, see a hundred different islands. Problem is, each dockside bar is frighteningly similar—and that’s basically all you’re going to see.” “At least I’ll get to meet a lot of different people.” “Well, yes,” she noted. “That is true. Problem is, their insides also all look frighteningly similar. And as a deadrunner, that’s basically all you’re going to see of them.” Tress glanced away from Crow. She wished the ship would move again. All this standing still made her nauseous. “So that’s it?” Crow said. “Just some childish desire to be someplace else?” “Yes,” Tress said. The captain seemed disappointed. In the distance, the sun finally sank into the sea, fully extinguished. Only the afterglow persisted to give evidence of the crime. It bothered Tress how much she’d had to lie lately. Certainly, one shouldn’t feel bad about lying to someone like Crow. One shouldn’t hit people either, but such social conventions don’t apply to the tiger gnawing on your leg. So Tress wasn’t worried about this lie. She was more concerned by the general density of lies emerging from her. They were all for the greater good, yes, but the aforementioned tiger might also believe that said gnawing was for the greater good. Specifically its good. Tress was coming to realize a discomforting fact: people are not separated into simple groups of liars and non-liars. It is often the situation, and one’s upbringing or genetics, that makes the lies—and therefore the liars. “Actually,” Tress found herself saying, “there is more. Someone I love was taken by the Sorceress. I intend to travel to her island and confront her to get him back.” Crow nearly dropped the cup. Tress reached out, anxious. “The Midnight Sea,” Crow said. “You intend to travel the Midnight Sea.” “Well, hopefully not alone,” Tress said. “Ideally I’d like to do it in a ship.” Crow laughed, and it was not a cheerful sound. Antagonistic and mocking, it was to ordinary laughter what a guard dog is to a puppy. “You?” Crow repeated. “A straggly-haired washer girl from nowhere? You’re going… I can’t even say it!” Something in Tress changed at that sound. It didn’t quite snap, but it certainly bent—and found that it was able to flex far more than it had in the past. She looked Crow in the eyes and said, “I don’t think that’s fair. I have gotten this far. My mother always told me that the hardest part of any task is getting yourself to start it.” “As someone who has climbed several mountains,” Crow said, “I can confidently say your mother is an idiot.” Tress felt herself flush with anger. Some things were uncalled for,
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even among pirates. “Who,” Crow said, “did you think would take you on this impossible mission?” “Well,” Tress said, “I only really know the crew of one ship right now. I was kind of hoping—” She was interrupted by another bout of laughter. She had expected this one. She’d provoked it on purpose. Because she was growing less and less embarrassed about lying, at least to Crow. And she had just thought of quite the majestic one. “What if I found a way to pay you?” Tress said. Crow laughed so hard she started coughing. Ulaam even came up and peeked about the deck at the sound, as the sole previous time he’d heard Crow laugh like that was when one of the sailors had managed to spear himself in the crotch with his own boarding hook. “Even if I wanted to go to the Midnight Sea,” Crow said, wiping her eyes, “and even if you could pay me, the crew would never agree to it.” “You’re probably right,” Tress said, pretending to think. “I’d have to ease them into it. Send them someplace menacing, but less dangerous at first. What about…the Crimson Sea? I’d need to cross the Crimson to get to the Midnight Sea anyway. So we could go there first.” “They’d never agree to it, girl,” Crow said. “This crew is as cowardly as the king himself.” “But say I could get them to agree,” Tress said. “Would you allow it? Very few ships sail the Crimson, so the ones that do must be the richest and most valuable to loot!” That, it should be noted, made about as much sense as assuming people who live in distant kingdoms must be the most fit, since it takes so long to walk to those places. Crow shrugged. “If you can persuade them, fine. But they won’t agree. Not yet. They’re not…desperate enough.” Tress thanked the captain and excused herself. She didn’t want to say anything more, and didn’t need to. Because the captain had effectively just been played by a straggly-haired washer girl from nowhere. Again. There’s a story from Tress’s land that I’m quite fond of telling. You see, in the palace of the king, the lowliest servant is the tosher—the man who goes through the castle’s sewage to make certain nothing useful has been lost or discarded. No one wanted to be the tosher, for obvious odoriferous reasons. Worse, no one listened to the tosher, because wherever he went, people were either too busy moving upwind from him, or they were preoccupied by trying to remember how to get vomit out of carpet. (Soap, vinegar, and warm water.) The tosher in our story had a great many items to complain about, some related to the lack of fiber in the royal diet. One thing he didn’t complain about was his dinner. Each day he got the same thing. A baked potato with lard. The tosher loved baked potatoes. So much so that he decided to begin asking for a second one at dinner. He was given it, mostly
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to get him to go away, and then it became a habit. Two potatoes. Each day. This continued until the lesser servants were instead served something different for dinner: cornbread with lard. And the tosher hated cornbread. He waited for the potatoes to return, but they never did. One day, while doing his daily work—after remarking that someone must have dyed the punch green again at the latest ball—a thought occurred to him. His life in the palace was miserable, but surely he could do something to better his station. He determined to speak to the cook and get potatoes for dinner again. So the tosher set out on a quest. He found the cook, apologized for making the milk curdle, and made his plea. Potatoes, please. Less cornbread. The cook was sympathetic, judging by the tears in her eyes. But unfortunately, she couldn’t change the menu. She explained that the palace butler set the meal plan; the cook simply made the food. The tosher went to talk to the butler. He found the man in the middle of a strange activity: trying to see how much handkerchief his nostrils could hold. The tosher presented his problem. The butler seemed sympathetic, judging by the way he was biting his lip. Sadly, he couldn’t change the meal plan—because he was allocated supplies by the minister of trade, who no longer provided potatoes. Well, the minister of trade—it turns out—had dropped her ring into the tosher’s domain. The tosher recovered it after some diligent searching, though he did wonder why someone as fancy as the minister of trade ate so much corn. He went to return the ring, and the minister honored the tosher by seeing him in person. Outside. In high winds. While it was raining. During allergy season. The tosher explained his predicament. The minister of trade was sympathetic, judging by the way she almost fainted as he approached, and she listened to his complaint. However, she could not help him; the king himself had mandated that only corn be fed to the servants. Well, the king wasn’t the sort of person you could meet every day. Because he wasn’t regular, and it was an every-second-day thing for him. On the proper day, the tosher—umbrella in hand—called up. He knew the king would be able to hear, as the tosher had firsthand, empirical evidence of how good the acoustics were in that particular location. He asked the king if he would please give them potatoes for dinner again. He loved them so much, he always ate two. The king was sympathetic, judging by how he stopped giving the tosher new work for a short time in order to answer. “I can’t,” the king said. “The entire potato crop succumbed to pests. Also, look out.” The tosher learned two important lessons that day. First, you don’t need to lower your umbrella to talk to someone. Second, no one—not even the king—had the power to provide potatoes at the moment. “You’re the one,” the king said after doing his business, “who started the two
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potatoes thing, eh?” “Um…yes?” the tosher called up, then regretted opening his mouth. “Funny,” the king explained, his voice echoing, “I had to stop buying potatoes even before the crop died. Once you took two, everyone wanted two. Because of the increased demand, potatoes became too expensive. We stopped being able to afford them for servants.” So in truth, there was a third lesson. Even small actions have consequences. And while we can often choose our actions, we rarely get to choose our consequences. As Tress walked belowdecks, she felt a certain…discomfort. That was a common occurrence. Conversations with Captain Crow tended to leave a person with residual filth. Emotional soap scum. As Tress saw Ulaam walking away—disappointed that the laughter hadn’t been due to any impaled crotches—she hastened after him. “Doctor,” she said, “there’s something I wanted to ask you. About…the spores I most certainly did not try.” “Hush,” he said, looking down the corridor. He ushered her toward her room. Once inside, he inspected her closely. “Yes…I believe you’re still alive.” “I mean, I’m talking to you. And walking around.” “That’s not as concrete a set of evidences as you might assume,” he said. “But what was it you wanted to ask me?” “Do midnight spores…leave any kind of trace after the bond is broken?” she asked. “Like, say you were using them to sneak into someplace you shouldn’t be.” “That is, generally, where people sneak. Hmmmm?” “Right. But let’s say that, um, you were interrupted and someone broke the spell for you so you didn’t die.” “It’s not a spell, but a complex symbiotic relationship between two entities. Either way, I’d buy the person who saved you a very nice present. Perhaps a spare shoulder.” “Uh…” “People can always use more shoulders. You know, despite people promising me cold ones as gifts on three separate occasions, they’ve never come through? Humans can be so inscrutable.” “Right. Uh, back on topic? Please?” Ulaam smiled, fingers laced before him. Strange, how his grey skin and red eyes could seem so…quaint once you got to know him. Less demonic. More eccentric. “You won’t be discovered,” he said, “unless someone actively saw the Midnight Essence moving about while you were controlling it. Once the bond breaks, it evaporates into black smoke, which disperses quickly. No residue is left behind.” Tress nodded, relieved. “Why are you so anxious about this?” Ulaam asked. “Well, I just had a conversation with the captain,” Tress said. “I feel like I got the better of her. And so…” “And so you wisely assume that maybe instead she was secretly manipulating you. Perhaps because she had a clue as to what you were doing, hmmmm? Curious. What, tell me, did you get her to do?” “Sail us to the Crimson Sea,” Tress said. “I know what you’re going to say. But I also talked to Fort, Salay, and Ann. They’re willing to sail the Crimson too, and think they can make the Dougs agree.” “I don’t doubt they can,” Ulaam said. “The three of them can be very persuasive.
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But why are we sailing the Crimson? What in the world could make you want that to happen?” “Oh!” Tress said. “Right. Well, that’s what I found out when I was spying on the captain. She plans to visit a dragon and make him heal her.” “Xisis,” Ulaam said. “She plans to bargain with Xisis?” “Yes, and so I persuaded her to sail the Crimson.” “Something she already wanted to do?” “Well, yes, technically. It’s more that I persuaded her without her knowing I was persuading her.” “To, again, do something she wanted to do.” “It’s complicated. But I worry maybe I’m not as clever as I might have thought I was.” “That seems self-evident, child,” Ulaam said. “Well,” she said, sitting down on her bed, “wasn’t it at least a little clever? The captain was going to sink at least one more ship. So getting everyone to go now instead… Everyone wins, right? Assuming we can find the dragon, the captain will get healed. No more ships need be sunk. Maybe once she’s no longer dying, Crow will let everyone go. And I…” Well, she would be on the Crimson Sea—remarkably, halfway to the Midnight Sea. That would put her closer to rescuing Charlie than she had realistically thought she would get. “Child,” Ulaam said, going to one knee beside the bed, “Xisis is a dragon. He doesn’t offer boons. He offers trades.” “For what? Treasure? You mean we have to rob some more ships first?” “Xisis has no need for lucre, Tress. He wants for only one thing in order to continue his experiments: servants to do his chores. But seeing as he lives underneath the spores, he requires a very particular kind of servant.” “Particular…in what way?” Tress asked. “They can’t be afraid of spores,” Ulaam said. “That is always the trade. One reasonable boon—a healing would count, I suppose—in exchange for one slave to work for him all their days. The trick is finding him an offering who doesn’t panic at being led through a tunnel of spores.” In that awful moment, Tress remembered the captain’s eyes when Tress had decided to remain on the ship. When she’d volunteered to become ship’s sprouter. You really aren’t afraid of spores, girl? Crow had asked. Oh, moons… Tress thought. Outside, the seethe started again. The ship lurched into motion a short time later, and she heard the captain calling new orders. They would head to a port and take on extra stores, since they would very soon be going on a long journey…without ports… Crow was planning to trade Tress to the dragon. And Tress, in her ignorance, had greatly accelerated the ship toward the event. She might have tricked Crow, but she’d managed to trick herself as well. She would have no proverbial potatoes. But she certainly was standing in a big pile of the tosher’s soil. Tress spent the next three days trying to devise a way to escape. Surely she’d done all that could be expected of her. She’d protected the crew of an entire merchant ship.
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She’d managed to set the Crow’s Song on a course toward a safe reconciliation for everyone except herself. Surely her conscience would let her flee now. The ship would stop at port to take on water before sailing the Crimson, and she had to find a way off the ship there. Then she could get on with her real quest, and let the Song go without her. Except… She sat in her room, leaning on her worktable and looking at the cups Charlie had sent her while traveling. He’d stayed true to her all that time, going so far as to sail to the Midnight Sea because he refused to take the easy path and marry one of the women his father wanted him to. He’d gone to his doom because of…because of love. For her. Could she really run? Hoid was her best lead in figuring out how to reach the Sorceress. Plus, here on this ship she had a crew that would sail the Crimson. And could she really abandon her friends? Particularly when they were showing so much faith in her? If she left, who would the captain give to the dragon? Would Crow be left with no recourse but to return to the Verdant Sea and continue her pillaging, murderous ways? Questions like these burdened her. Worry has weight, and is an infinitely renewable resource. One might say worries are the only things you can make heavier simply by thinking about them. The day the Crow’s Song finally pulled into port, Tress was on the deck, wind making a mess of her mane of hair. Again thinking about Charlie. She missed him a frightening amount. She hadn’t realized, in their years together, how much she’d come to rely on his presence. Not that he’d done anything specific. Charlie wasn’t really a “do things” kind of person. He was a “be things” kind of person. Making decisions was easier around him—as if he were an emotional lubricant easing the machinery of the heart as it labored through difficult tasks. Lately, she’d been having trouble picturing him. She could perfectly remember a picture of him, hanging above the mansion’s hearth. But him? That wasn’t so easy, though she loved him. That is not so odd an occurrence. A picture is an object, easy to define and contain, while a person is a soul—and is therefore neither of those things. The island appeared up ahead, breaking out of the Verdant. Dougs called out, excited to go ashore. Even Hoid seemed to have a spring in his step as he wandered past wearing…well… All right, I was wearing black slacks with bright white athletic socks. There. You know my shame. My relationship to fashion was in those days akin to that of a fifteen-pound spiked mace to an unarmored forehead. Before Tress could decide if she wanted to execute her half-formed plan of escape, Laggart sauntered over and tapped her on the shoulder. He pointed toward the captain’s quarters. “Crow wants to see you, girl.” With a sigh, Tress obeyed. Inside, she
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found Crow at her desk, holding an exquisite porcelain cup with a floral motif painted across the side. The captain sipped at it and waved toward the seat across the small desk. Tress sat, noticing—but trying not to stare at—the book she’d read earlier. Crow idly tapped it with an index finger as she stared out her porthole. On deck, Laggart called orders for the Dougs to prepare the ship for docking. The vessel slowed and turned, wooden timbers giving soft groans of exertion. “That’s…a nice cup, Captain,” Tress finally said, daring to speak first. “Got it from those merchants,” Crow said. “My first official piece of plunder.” “We’re pulling into port,” Tress noted, as if it needed to be stated. “I am, um, planning to go ashore…” “No you aren’t,” Crow said. “I’m not?” Crow shook her head and took another sip. “You’ll join me in conversation here while the crew unloads cargo and reloads supplies. I should…enjoy the company.” A tremor went through Tress, an aftershock to Crow’s words. Was this proof she had discovered Tress’s spying? Or…no, this might simply be Crow being careful with her chosen offering for the dragon. With a sinking feeling, Tress realized that she wouldn’t get to decide whether or not to flee. Even if Crow didn’t know what Tress was planning, she wasn’t taking any chances. “Do you like tea, girl?” Crow asked. “I’m fond of it, yes.” “You’d probably love this,” Crow said. “Zapriel tea, from the Dromatory Isles. Expensive stuff. Worth more than gold, by weight.” Notably, she did not offer Tress a cup. “This is how a deadrunner lives,” Crow continued. “Frenzied bursts of opulence. Best enjoyed quickly, as our lives are bound to be short. It pleases me that the rest of you get to experience this.” “Being hunted? Being outlaws?” “Being one step from death,” Crow said. “Most people never live, Tress, because they’re afraid of losing the years they have left…years that also will be spent not living. The irony of a cautious existence.” She took another sip and eyed Tress. “Do you feel more alive now? Now that you have joined us in killing, facing the chance to be killed?” Tress wanted to answer. Because…she had noticed this. She wasn’t so timid about right and wrong, or about propriety, as she once had been. Was…something breaking inside her because of this life? Could she ever fix it? “You’re wrong,” Tress said. “Plenty of ordinary people live meaningful, interesting lives without needing someone like you pushing them. You shouldn’t be so callous about killing good people.” “I am no more callous than the moons,” Crow said. “Why, they take young and old, lovers of virtue or vice. Fallen to disease here, famine there. A casual accident inside the safety of one’s home. Why should I avoid killing good people? I follow the path of the gods themselves by delivering death indiscriminately. To do otherwise would presume I am greater than they.” “You could have gotten what you wanted without killing.” “Yes, but why?” Crow said. “I’m a
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pirate. So are you, though you make a terrible one. Too merciful. Looking to protect random merchant ships when you should be worried about yourself.” Tress fell silent, her breath catching. Crow took another sip of her tea. “Yes, I know about the cannonballs,” she said. Why beat around the bush when there were so many people who weren’t currently being beaten? “Laggart hasn’t figured it out yet, but he has the intelligence of a walnut. There’s only one person who could have swapped those balls.” Tress wished she were more coolheaded, so the sweat on her brow wouldn’t give her away. “Don’t look so frightened,” Crow said, leaning back in her seat. “That was an enterprising move, if misguided. You’d be an excellent servant—rather, sailor—if you could be properly controlled. Anyway, it’s over now. We’re sailing the Crimson as you wanted. You really think you can save your friend from the Sorceress?” “I didn’t do it solely for him,” Tress said, annoyed at how deeply she allowed Crow’s words to sting. “I wanted to protect the crew; I didn’t want you truly making them into deadrunners.” The captain laughed. “Protect the crew? By persuading them to sail the Crimson? Child, I worried that killing Weev would deprive me of my favorite source of amusement, but you have well and truly taken his place!” Tress blushed and looked down. She tried to remember how she’d felt so proud of herself a few days ago—but that emotion seemed remarkably naive now. “Do you even know?” the captain said. “Do you realize what the Crimson Sea is like?” “I…I know it’s bad…” Crow let out a roar of laughter, loud enough that the moons themselves assuredly heard. She slapped the table, rattling her tea saucer. “You set us on this course, and you don’t even know what we’re sailing toward!” It occurred to Tress that she absolutely should have asked this question before. “I understand,” Tress said, “that there are more dangerous spores than the verdant ones. But I don’t see how a sea can be much more dangerous—we already are careful not to spill water, and we have silver all throughout our ship. So as long as we’re careful, we should be fine, right?” “Oh, girl,” Crow said with a chuckle, “it’s not the spores that are the problem. It’s the rain.” Right. Rain. I haven’t explained rain. The more meteorologically inclined among you might be wondering about the planet’s weather patterns and water cycle. If you’re one of those to whom these things are extremely important, you have my sympathies. It’s never too late to develop a personality. Maybe go to a party. But try to avoid topics like weather patterns and water cycles. Unless of course you can do it like me. Rain falls in small localized ribbons on Tress’s planet. These vibrant lines of water weave like serpents in the sky. Rain brings death and life, hand in hand—fitting company for the gods. More isolated squalls than true storms, these resplendent displays are best at night. They shatter the moonlight
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into a thousand colors. You haven’t witnessed the full grandeur of a rainbow until you’ve watched one explode in rings on the Verdant Sea, haloing a moon big enough to swallow the sky. Naturally, aethers grow with the rain, springing up behind those ribbons of water. It’s as if some celestial being is drawing lines on a map, and fortifications appear spontaneously at their will. Those walls hang there, gasp for life, then collapse into the sea, devoured by the jealous spores. It’s beautiful in a way only something so terrifying can inspire, and terrifying in a way that only something so beautiful can demand. Fortunately, these rainfalls are perfectly predictable. They follow the same routes every time, so constant that rainfall maps from a hundred years before are still accurate. Except in the Crimson Sea. “Rain falls unpredictably in the Crimson, girl,” Crow said. “Yes, the spores are dangerous—they create red spines, sharp as a needle. But the real danger is the rain. Squalls can come upon you at any time, unexpectedly, weaving through the sky in any direction they please. Sailing the Crimson is all about random luck. No preparation can protect you, because the rain kills the clever same as the fool. Just like I do.” Outside the room, Tress heard thumps as the Dougs began to return with barrels of water. “I…see,” Tress said, her mouth dry. “And the Midnight Sea? Is it the same? Random rains?” “Oh, no,” Crow said, standing up and stretching. “But it doesn’t matter, seeing as how midnight spores birth monsters that serve the Sorceress. Rain can fall twenty leagues from you, but you’ll still get swarmed by the monsters. There’s no escaping them—at least on the Crimson you can get lucky. No one sails the Midnight without being attacked.” Crow smiled. “No one.” She nodded then, dismissing Tress. The Dougs had returned, and the ship was stocked. There was no opportunity for Tress to flee now. Crow followed Tress out. It wasn’t until the ship was safely away from port—on a heading that would take them straight into the Crimson Sea—that Tress was allowed to go belowdecks. Trapped. She was trapped on this ship. They were sailing toward an insane sea where rain fell unpredictably. And if they survived, she would be sold into slavery to a dragon. Had she really thought she had the upper hand? Had she really thought she could rescue Charlie? Her? Of all people? The worst part was, he would probably never know what had happened to her. He’d rot alone in the Sorceress’s prison. And if by some miracle he did get free, he’d find that she’d left the Rock—but her ship had been destroyed by deadrunners. She drifted down the steps, then down the hallway. Dougs laughed and worked behind her, thumping on the steps to the hold. But she felt alone. Like she was choking at dinner, and nobody could see. Or maybe nobody cared. She fled to her room as tears threatened to boil free. She doubted that bawling your eyes out was
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an appropriate pirate activity, so she was glad she was able to get the door shut before she fully lost control. “Whoa,” Huck said. He scampered up onto the footboard of the bed. “Hey, Tress. What’s wrong? What happened?” “I…I…” She shook her head and gasped for breath, unable to speak. It was all suddenly too much. People are like stomachs, you know. They can process some of what you feed them, but stuff in too much too fast, and eventually it’s going to come right back up. “What did they do to you, Tress?” Huck asked. “I’ll get them back. I promise you. I’ll bite ’em on the toes.” “On…the toes?” she asked through the tears, imagining the ridiculous sight. “Yup,” he said. “It’s a very noble thing to attempt, as the toes are the third most stinky part on a human’s body. I’d do it anyway, for you.” Tress settled down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling as tears crawled down her cheeks. “Tress?” Huck said. “Really. What happened?” “Nothing happened,” she whispered. “And nobody did anything to me. I’m to blame. For all of this. The captain plans to trade me to the dragon of the Crimson Sea—I’m to be payment for a healing. “I knew I was in over my head, so why should I be surprised? Why wouldn’t I end up trapped on a ship captained by a demon, sailing straight toward my own doom? It’s what I deserve.” She put the heels of her palms to her eyes, rubbing them. Then she felt a distinct bite on her left big toe. “Hey!” she said, sitting up and looking toward the foot of the bed, where Huck sat. “Sorry,” he said. “But I did promise to bite the person who was responsible for you crying. Also…um, no offense…but yuck.” She flopped back down. “Don’t make me laugh,” she said. “I might shatter like a cold glass dropped in hot water.” He scrambled along the bed, up next to the pillow, watching her tears. Those were quieter now, but still persistent, like the pain itself. “I…went ashore,” Huck said. “I hid in one of the bales of cloth the Dougs hauled out, then made my escape while Fort was selling them. He’s good, by the way. I’ve never seen someone haggle like that man. And beyond that, the town was really interesting. Maybe you’d like to hear about it?” She shrugged. “When I’m feeling bad, it’s nice to think about something else,” Huck said, wringing his paws. “So let me know if I’m helping, or if you want me to be quiet. Sometimes it’s better if people—and rats—are quiet. I know that. At least, someone told me that once. “Anyway, I watched Fort haggle, but I was too far away to read his words. I just know he got way more for those bales of cloth than he should have, considering the buyer must have known they were hot. Oh! And afterward he went to meet with a group of Deaf people living on the island.
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There were a bunch of them, and Fort smiled a lot and used his hands to talk, instead of the board. I wonder if the other islands have groups like that and I never noticed. “Anyway, the city didn’t fly the royal flag. Isn’t that interesting? I know we’re at the border of the Emerald Sea, but still. The king has always made it seem like there aren’t any rogue islands. And we just landed on one! I expected a lot of peg legs and eye patches, but the people seemed…normal.” “We’re pirates now,” Tress said, “and there’s not an eye patch among us. We’re normal too, I guess.” “Kind of funny to think about, isn’t it?” Huck said. “That all the pirates in the world were once someone normal.” He fell silent, as if uncertain whether he should continue. Tress, oddly, found that his talking was helping. She’d never been one for wanderlust, but she had dreamed of far-off places and their cups. That part of her genuinely wanted to hear about the island. “You said the town was interesting,” she said, turning to look toward Huck. “Interesting how?” “Oh!” he said. “They have a bell tower, Tress! I’ve always wanted to see a bell tower. I overheard some people talking, and they said it has fifty-three bells. What an odd number, don’t you think? I always thought a bell tower would have one bell. It’s not a bells tower. “Well, I walked all the way around it and snuck a peek through the window, and they have ropes for ringing the bells! You pull on them and make sounds all through town. I doubt they’d let rats pull the ropes though. Even if we could.” Tress smiled. A simple act, but only moments ago it had seemed as impossible as flying. Or as coming up with a rhyme for “bulb.” (No really. Try it.) There was something endearing about the way Huck continued explaining his experiences on the island. He spoke of the most common things. A garden with flowers that smelled good. A pathway where all the cobbles fit together to make a spiral. A drinking fountain that you worked with a foot pedal. The fact that he found these things interesting enough to talk about was in itself engaging. The topic mattered less than his enthusiasm. And so, Tress smiled. That didn’t banish her worries or her sorrow, but it did nudge those dour thoughts toward transforming into other less oppressive ones. “…And then the girl got her brother wet,” Huck said, “by stomping on the pedal when he bent down to drink. Isn’t that delightful? Reminds me of being young. When I wasn’t on a pirate ship far from home.” “You could go back,” Tress said. “If you want, Huck. You could leave. You should.” “I can’t,” he said softly. “I can’t ever go back to my island, Tress. Because my home isn’t there anymore.” That had the markings of tragedy, so Tress didn’t press him for details. Plus, she didn’t want to think about the fact
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that—in all likelihood—she wouldn’t ever be going home either. “Does it seem like things were better when you were younger?” Huck asked. “Did life really make more sense then?” “Yeah,” Tress whispered. “I remember…calm nights, watching the spores fall from the moon. Lukewarm cups of honey tea. The thrill of baking something new.” “I remember not being afraid,” Huck said. “I remember waking each day to familiar scents. I remember thinking I understood how my life would go. Same as my parents’. Simple. Maybe not wonderful, but also not terrifying.” “I don’t think things were really better though,” Tress said softly, still staring at the ceiling. “We just remember it that way because it’s comforting.” “And because we couldn’t see the troubles,” Huck agreed. “Maybe we didn’t want to see them. When you’re young, there’s always someone else to deal with the problems.” Tress nodded. Beyond that, memories have a way of changing on us. Souring or sweetening over time—like a brew we drink, then recreate later by taste, only getting the ingredients mostly right. You can’t taste a memory without tainting it with who you have become. That inspires me. We each make our own lore, our own legends, every day. Our memories are our ballads, and if we tweak them a little with every performance…well, that’s all in the name of good drama. The past is boring anyway. We always pretend the ideals and culture of the past have aged like wine, but in truth, the ideas of the past tend to age more like biscuits. They simply get stale. Tress thought through a few of her personal favorite ballads, which thrummed with honey, and love, and other sweet things. She genuinely felt better. Moons, hearing about bell towers and water fountains had made her feel better. For some people, feeling better would have been an excuse to ignore the situation, but Tress preferred to weaponize her mood swings. So, ever pragmatic, she sat up on the bed and confronted her problems. “I need a way to defend myself,” she whispered. “A way to defeat Crow before she sells me to the dragon.” It was fortunate, then, that Tress’s room contained five different varieties of the most dangerous substance on the planet. Tress had given her room a cursory inspection when she’d moved in. She’d sorted through the things Weev had left, mostly to make certain nothing truly dangerous was hiding among them. Those earlier explorations had been the actions of a girl playing a role. Now she looked again. As a girl trying to save her life. Where she had read, now she studied. Where she had arranged, now she organized. And where she had accepted, now she experimented. Nothing motivates quite like a deadline. Particularly one that emphasizes the dead part. Tress didn’t just pour her whole heart into the activity, she gave it her entire body, for a heart can’t accomplish much without a nice set of fingers. Weev had not been an orderly person. Tress had hoped he’d left behind manuals of instructions. Instead she found
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scraps and scrawled notes, cluttered with collected tidbits and half-finished ideas. The sort of mental detritus that those unacquainted with genius often attribute to unfettered brilliance. In truth, there was no pattern to such a mess other than the subtle chaos of frustration. Signs of a mind stretching beyond its limit toward ideas just beyond its reach. This can happen to a dunce as easily as a genius; it’s no proof of capacity, any more than a person being too full for dessert is an indication of their weight. In Weev’s case, the scraps were indicative of a mental hoarder: a person who collected ideas like a grandmother collects ceramic pigs. It was in the middle of realizing this—and coming to understand that she would find no miracle solution—that Tress ran across the first promising scrap. It was a detailed schematic for a cannonball, with a scrawled message at the bottom indicating the captain had wanted Weev to figure out how to make them himself, so the ship wouldn’t have to keep buying them at high prices from the zephyr-masters. This intrigued Tress. She had a casual interest in the mechanics of cannonballs, like the way you might find yourself interested in the cuisine of a culture whose language you’d been learning. What held her attention, however, was the intricate use of spores inside them. Weev had been stymied. That much she could tell from his scrawled notes, which only served to distort and obfuscate the otherwise orderly diagram. Still, it depicted a sprouting technique she hadn’t been aware of. By now you’ve seen that a cannonball on Tress’s world wasn’t merely a lump of metal, but a piece of artillery—one I promised to explain in more detail. You see, each had a timer inside that, after its launch, would lead to a secondary explosion and a burst of water. Yes, you know that part already. But do you know how the timers were made? It turned out to be quite simple: the timer fuse was a vine. From the notes, Tress learned she wasn’t the first to discover that applying water to an aether would cause it to continue to grow after its initial burst. The explosive emergence was erratic, but everything afterward was far more predictable. Even precise. An exactly measured verdant vine would grow at an extremely reliable rate when given an exactly measured amount of water. (Yes, for those of you who care about things like weather patterns, this growth eventually stopped—and a given vine would eventually exhaust all of its growth potential. Otherwise, people couldn’t very well eat them. Getting the vines to the end of their growth potential was essential for turning them into emergency food.) Anyway, the initial explosion that sent the cannonball soaring also broke a small glass container of water inside, soaking a clipping of verdant aether. That vine grew—pushing a plug with a bit of silver on the tip—through a short tube toward the central mechanism of the cannonball. This was a charge of zephyr spores surrounding a hollow sphere made of
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roseite. That roseite, in turn, had wax on the inside—which allowed it to contain, but not touch, a charge of water. The silver tip pushed through the zephyr spores, killing a small number of them but leaving most unharmed, and then touched the roseite sphere—which cracked from the pressure of the silver. Water flooded out, touched the zephyr spores, and released their explosion—which detonated the entire mechanism violently, shooting out shrapnel and water. I have seen the modern designs, a note at the bottom said—she didn’t think it was from Weev, but the original creator of the diagram—and agree. Impact detonation charges are the future of artillery. She didn’t know what that last part meant, but nonetheless she found the diagram ingenious. Here were three different aethers working together. Verdant for the fuse. Roseite for the water container. Zephyr for the explosion. The central sphere didn’t break from the initial firing of the cannonball because it was far, far stronger than glass—but it had a built-in weakness, in that silver could damage it. In this design, she also discovered that wax could insulate an aether from water. She was in awe, and possible experiments ran through her mind. Now, it should be noted that experimenting with zephyr spores was usually an excellent way to be certain you went home in many small coffins, instead of one large one. But, as we’ve demonstrated previously, Tress possessed a common sense rare to many in her position. The sprouter profession attracts a self-selecting crowd. Normally this includes uncommon individuals who have somehow survived their natural inclination to jump from idiotic heights into shallow water, or to ride bicycles down mountainsides, or to eat unidentified brightly colored berries. The human species does need a certain amount of foolhardiness. Without that, people would have been too reasonable to do frightening things—like venture close to that very hot orange stuff that turns wood black and makes Tharg’s beard smoke. But evolution is not a precise mechanism, and it has resulted in a certain number of people in the population with more nerve than neurons. Spore sprouting was only the latest in an increasingly shiny set of activities destined to neatly—and violently—cull such individuals from the gene pool. But Tress hadn’t sought out the occupation. She’d fallen into it. She was intelligent enough to understand the charts and thoughtful enough to expand upon the ideas. And what she lacked in formal training, she more than made up for by being the type of person who used oven mitts even when a pot had been given time to cool down. It was, at that moment, the exact mix that innovation required. In fact, while some might call what happened next dumb luck, I would term it inevitable. There’s no reason, Tress thought, holding up the schematic, why you couldn’t make something like this that was portable. Not just a gun. Guns were common, and while useful, not particularly flexible. Could she improve upon that? What would a modular spore gun look like? A note at the bottom of the schematic—again
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added by the original creator—gave her the last piece she needed. Reference my schematic for flares, which iterates on this design. Moon of meanings… Flare guns. The first few steps had already been taken. All Tress had to do was— A knock came at the door. Such a little interruption. A polite one, of the type Tress associated with her old life. Nonetheless it shattered Tress’s concentration like the thunder of a thousand cannons firing at once. She leaped to her feet and threw open the door, uncharacteristically prepared to unleash a stream of verbal abuse upon the one who had so callously interrupted her. She found Fort standing outside, plugging the hallway, holding a plate covered with a pot lid to keep it warm. He held up his sign. You didn’t pick up evening mess, it said. Are you all right? Tress blinked, then glanced out her room’s porthole. It had gotten so dark, she’d been squinting to read without realizing it. Soon, she’d need to light her lamp—a luxury afforded the sprouter that was denied common sailors. She put a hand to her head, pushing back her hair, trying to track the hours. Had she really been that enthralled? Moon of mercy…she’d been ready to snap at Fort when he’d been so kind as to bring her some dinner. What had happened to her? Had some kind of spell on those papers made the time vanish? Or had she really been that interested? Remarkable. There weren’t any cups involved, nor any windows. “Thank you, Fort,” she said, taking the plate. She peeked underneath the cover and found the normal crusted slop leftovers. Today’s offering might have once been some mashed potatoes and seagull, though it was difficult to tell through the char. She figured the meals probably weren’t made of sawdust and rocks, despite the flavor, since she hadn’t died from malnutrition yet. You still owe me for all this, he noted. Captain never did order me to let you eat, despite your new station. “When we figure out the right payment,” Tress mumbled, “can we maybe start letting me have some that isn’t scraped off the bottom of the pot?” Fort frowned. What? Tress, I save some for you and Hoid first thing, before I let the Dougs at it. “You…what?” It hit her like a hammer to the skull. This wasn’t the leftovers. This was what everyone ate. “Oh…oh dear,” she said. Fort had the decency to look down and shrug apologetically. We took turns after Weev died, he wrote. I’m the best we have. Ann’s concoction left half the crew sick for three days. “Is that so,” Tress said. “Well, I think I have discovered a way I can repay you—and the rest of the crew—for the kindness you’ve shown me.” Cooking here isn’t easy, he warned, holding up his palm beside the board after he wrote the words. We only have sea rations—most of it stale, canned, or dried. It’s hard to make palatable. “I think you’ll be surprised,” Tress said. “Come get me tomorrow before
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you start cooking for evening mess…” She trailed off as she heard the bell on deck ring out a warning. That wasn’t the three heavy strikes indicating another ship had been spotted. But neither was it the call to mess, which was a constant ringing. It was two strikes, then quiet, then two strikes. “What’s that?” she asked. Border ahead, Fort wrote, hand moving quickly as he practically bounced with excitement. Crimson Sea has been spotted. Want to witness the crossing? “Absolutely!” she said, joining him in the hall, though she was strangely reluctant to leave her research. That was silly. She had no formal training in academics; her schooling had ended at basic reading and arithmetic. Surely she wasn’t secretly a scholar. A window-washing girl? If she’d been inclined toward research, she’d have realized it before. The truth was, she’d simply never encountered a topic interesting enough—or dangerous enough—to engage her. I’m not sure I can recommend visiting the spore seas. While there are places in the cosmere that are more deadly, few are so casually dangerous. Other locations will kill you with a roar or a cataclysm. But the spores, they do it with a whisper. One moment you’re enjoying a nice book. The next, you take in an unfortunate breath, get a few crimson spores in your system, and suddenly you’ve turned your skull into a colander. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, it seems somehow more unfair than dying from a lightning bolt or a hurricane. Nature is supposed to announce herself before murdering you. It’s only sporting. That said, the spore seas do have some sights to sell. Fort made room for Tress by the prow, sending a couple of Dougs to watch from the rigging instead. It was evening, and this far away from the lunagree the green dome of the Verdant Moon drooped low on the horizon behind them—a mirror image to the Crimson one ahead. A vast red sphere in the sky, peeking over the horizon, with the sun hovering above it like an eager sibling. Closer to the ship, just ahead, the verdant spores gradually mixed with the crimson, making a gradient where—from a distance—the center was a deep brown. The vibrant, shimmering red beyond seemed an ocean of blood, like the Crimson Moon had been shot and the Crow’s Song was sailing toward its corpse. Tress hadn’t given thought to how wrong that color would feel. The Emerald Moon and Sea had, quite literally, colored everything she’d ever seen. It intimidated her to realize she was leaving it and entering that wounded red ocean instead. She’d been watched by the Verdant Moon all her life, and a very small piece of her—irrational though it was—worried she’d vanish the moment it stopped thinking about her. As they closed the distance, then crossed the border, Fort leaned against the railing and held up his sign. You’re grinning. “Sorry,” Tress said. “It’s just that this is terrifying.” You smile when things are terrifying? “I didn’t use to,” she said. “I think my brain
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is intimidated by how insane things are out here on the seas, and is trying to fit in.” Fort rubbed his chin, but didn’t write anything else. She knew he was thinking about her supposed role as a King’s Mask, and how she wasn’t nearly as frightened of spores as she should have been. And again, it wasn’t that. She was afraid. At the same time, she hadn’t realized how terribly beautiful those red spores would be. Nor how strange it would feel to be leaving the Emerald Sea. These were new emotions, and like new flavors, they could be simultaneously terrifying and intoxicating. What else would she have never known about herself, if she hadn’t left her home island? Worse, how many people like her lived in ignorance, lacking the experience to fully explore their own existence? It is one of the most bitter ironies I’ve ever had to accept: there are, unquestionably, musical geniuses of incomparable talent who died as street sweepers because they never had the chance to pick up an instrument. The Crow’s Song continued straight on into the Crimson Sea until one of the Dougs in the rigging called out a warning. The sky had opened up, and death was snaking toward them. Tress had never seen rain before. On her island, water came from wells. Though she’d been told about water falling from the sky, it had always felt magical, mystical. A thing of stories. One of those stories apparently wanted to eat her, for the rain came streaking straight toward them: a knot of fast-moving clouds in the sky, trailing an explosion of aether in a line upon the ocean. A vast wall of crimson spikes that grew up and locked together with such force, the clacking sound was audible from a great distance. Tress stood, mesmerized. Salay, fortunately, had more experience here—and was already turning the ship when the captain called out an order to do so. They veered hard, tacking to port and swerving—lethargically—back into the Verdant. The rainline didn’t give chase, though it did turn upon the border of the seas, racing on ahead, leaving interlocking crimson spines thirty feet tall. Those eventually slumped and sank into the sea, leaving it pristine, calm. Like a child who stuffed the broken cookie jar under the counter and assumed all would be forgotten. “Moons,” Tress breathed. “What if…what if the seethe had stilled right then? What if we’d been unable to move…” Fort glanced at his board to read what she’d said. His only response was to shrug. It was the sort of risk they would take, sailing the Crimson. Tress turned toward the quarterdeck, where Crow stood near the helm station, taking a long pull on her canteen. She lowered it, and seemed thoughtful. She wouldn’t dare press forward, would she? With that rainline slithering through the region? “Helmswoman,” Crow finally said, projecting her voice so everyone could hear. “Kindly take us south a spell, along the border. It seems…imprudent to enter the Crimson at the moment.” “As you command, Captain,” Salay said.
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Crow swooped down to the main deck, then slammed herself into her cabin. Laggart hurried down the steps, nearly stumbling in his haste, then quickly covered the slip by shouting for the Dougs to get back to work. In minutes, they were sailing a leisurely course along the border. Fort excused himself to go scrub some pots, leaving Tress leaning against the ship’s rail. Laggart stomped past Tress, then hesitated. “You,” he said. “What do you think of this now?” “I honestly don’t know,” she replied. “I’m still trying to wrap my mind around it all.” “I can help with that!” Dr. Ulaam’s voice called from nearby. Laggart grunted. Then he gestured for her to follow. Curious, she joined him on the quarterdeck. Behind the helm and the captain’s roost was the aft cannon, set out on its own railed platform, like a heavily reinforced balcony sticking out the very back of the vessel. It was a dangerous section of the ship, as it was away from the silver protections. Spores that somehow leaped the gap between sea and deck here would take longer to die. That, of course, was important for the zephyr spores used as charges. Laggart rummaged in the gunnery barrel—an action that fortunately caused him to look down. Because if he’d seen Tress’s face, he might have noticed her sudden spike of worry. What was he doing? Was he going to confront her with one of the swapped cannonballs? Moons…she would have made a terrible spy. How could Salay and the others possibly think she was a King’s Mask? Tress didn’t understand that it is quite possible to be so bad at something it seems implausible. In these cases, it stands to reason that such a person is in fact quite competent—because it takes true competence to feign such spectacular incompetence. It’s called the transitive property of ineptitude, and is the explanation for anything you’ve seen me do wrong ever. In this case, Tress’s transitive ineptitude didn’t come into play, because Laggart didn’t see how nervous she was—nor did he confront her with a fake cannonball. Instead he selected an ordinary cannonball, then held it up as if admiring a beautiful painting. Or—considering the way his bald head on the end of his toothpick neck made him look—perhaps he was wondering if there was any relation. “Now that we’re proper pirates,” he said to Tress, “I figure we ought to have someone on this ship besides me and the captain who knows how to fire a cannon. The rest of the crew are too useless around spores to be trained. Congratulations.” She noticed that, despite his bold words, he reached very gingerly into the gunnery barrel and selected a pouch of zephyr spores—holding it pinched between two fingers. He quickly loaded it into the cannon through a latch on the top. “Zephyr charge goes in here,” he said, snapping the metal lid closed. “Get them loaded quickly, because even here, the deck’s silver is close enough to start killing spores. Inner casing there is lined with aluminum, to
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block the silver’s influence.” He pushed a wad into the cannon and rammed it into place with a rod. “This rag fills up the bore of the cannon,” he explained, “keeps the explosion from going around the ball—and puts the full force on the shot.” He slid a cannonball down the front of the cannon. It thumped into place. “Cannon can’t angle too low, otherwise we’d roll the ball out the front.” “All right,” Tress said. “But…um, does the captain know you’re having me do this?” “I’m cannonmaster,” he snapped. “Captain won’t care who I train. You just do as you’re told. Besides, a man needs to take care of himself. I don’t want to end up wounded, then get sunk because nobody else on this damn ship has the guts to handle zephyr.” So. Laggart didn’t know that she was to be sold to the dragon. This struck Tress as odd, since he seemed to know the rest of the plan. But then she realized there was a good chance the captain considered him a backup sacrifice. He was one of the crewmembers who was least afraid of spores. Laggart picked up a small wooden contraption near the railing, then tossed it overboard. It proved to be a kind of small buoy with a flag, tied by a rope to the ship. As they sailed, it trailed along far behind—like the most conscientious of stalkers. “Take five shots a day,” Laggart told her. “The best way to get a feel for a cannon is to practice.” He started to walk away. “Wait!” Tress said. “You’re not going to give me any more training than that?” “Training would be useless until you know more,” he said. “I’m busy. Figure it out and don’t bother me with stupid questions. If you sink a buoy, congratulations. There are more in the hold. Come bother me when you can do it in at most two shots, and then we’ll talk about some real training.” “All right,” Tress said, an idea occurring to her. “But maybe I should start with something less expensive and wasteful than full cannonballs. We don’t have a flare gun on board, do we? I could try that out first.” “What kind of a stupid question is that?” Laggart said. It was, identifiably, the stupid kind of stupid question. Which at least is better than the redundant kind of statement. “A flare gun is nothing like a cannon,” he said. “So just do what I told you, idiot.” He continued muttering to himself as he stalked off. Tress folded her arms. She’d been planning to spend the evening either studying or trying to figure out how to crack Hoid’s curse. This was an unwelcome intrusion. Still, perhaps there were some advantages. If she was planning to build her own spore-based weapon to fight the captain, there were worse uses of her time than experimenting with a cannon. It was just that Laggart, by refusing to offer any useful training, had ensured she’d waste hours figuring out the basic mechanics of aiming the
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cannon. Even with this brief delay at the border, she knew her time was short. Depending on where the dragon’s den was in the Crimson Sea, she had anywhere between a few hours and a few weeks to plan. A solution occurred to her only a moment later. She pushed the cannon forward, as she’d seen Laggart do. Then she smiled, took a firing rod—which had a soaked bit of cloth on the end—and stuck it into the touch hole. A second later an explosion rocked her, knocking the cannon back along its track. It took less than a minute for Ann’s head to pop up behind, wide-eyed and eager. “You use these two winches,” Ann explained, rotating a handle—not unlike the one on a meat grinder—at the base of the cannon. “This one turns it port or starboard. This other one raises it up in the air. See, a cannonball drops as it flies. So you have to aim upward and kind of lob your shot in an arc.” She pointed. “The tricky part is to judge the distance. You’ve got a lot of cannonballs with different fuse lengths. To properly immobilize a ship, you need the ball to explode right before hitting, so it sprays water.” “Seems like there should be an easier way,” Tress said, sitting on the gunnery barrel. “Like making a cannonball that explodes when it hits something. Then you’d only have to aim for the ship, not judge the distance.” “I suppose,” Ann said. “Ain’t ever heard of anything like that though.” I have, Tress thought, realizing only now what the diagram in her quarters had been talking about. It had mentioned “impact detonation charges.” Someone’s planning weapons like that. Maybe already built them. It wouldn’t be too hard, would it? What if you somehow made a cannonball that was pointed instead of round, so you could fire it tip-forward like an arrow. You could then make it so when it hit something, that tip was pushed backward into the center to explode the thing. But a cannonball that wasn’t round? Could that even be created? It was kind of in the name, after all… Ann finished cranking the cannon up, then stood, resting a hand fondly on the weapon. Men, what you want to find is a woman who looks at you like Ann looked at that cannon. Because if such a woman exists, you’ll want to move to a completely different kingdom, inform the authorities, and watch the post for packages containing random disembodied fingers. “Pardon if this is intruding,” Tress said, “but why are you so…um…” “Weird about guns?” Ann asked. Tress blushed, then nodded. “Why are you so weird about blushing when you ask questions?” Ann asked. “I don’t want to impose on people.” “You should more often,” Ann said. “How else are you going to get what you want?” “Well…I mean, others shouldn’t have to think about what I want. It…” She took a deep breath. “Will you tell me, Ann, why you are so weird around guns?” “Why do you
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think?” Ann asked. “Any guesses?” “No. I…did ask Fort, and he said he thought you must have been a slave or something when you were a child. He thinks firing guns is about controlling your surroundings. Having access to power.” “Huh,” Ann said, settling onto a box of extra cannonballs. “And he’s normally so good at figuring people out.” “So you weren’t a slave as a child, I take it?” “Farm girl,” she said. “Raised chickens. It was a great life. You know, chickens are really intelligent and make great pets.” “Really?” “Yeah. It’s a bloody shame they’re so delicious. Any other guesses about me?” “Well,” Tress said, “I asked Salay, and she figured that you see cannons and firearms as symbols of authority, so you want to be in charge of them because people take carpentry for granted—and you want a more important job.” “Ah, well,” Ann said, “that’s exactly what I’d expect Salay to say. She’s always been terrible at judging people. Like, really terrible.” “I…um…might have noticed,” Tress said. “Please tell me you asked Ulaam about me.” Tress blushed more deeply. “You did!” Ann said, pointing. “What did he say?” “I didn’t really understand his explanation,” Tress replied. “It, um, was something about the shape of the guns…and cigars for some reason?” Ann laughed. A raucous, untamed sound, full of genuine mirth. Tress couldn’t help but smile as well. That kind of laughter quickly overbooks a person and looks for additional accommodations nearby. “So what is it really?” Tress asked as Ann’s laughter finally died down. “I just…” Ann shrugged. “I think they’re nifty.” “That’s all?” “All?” Ann said. “You can basically define someone by the stuff they like, Tress. It’s what sets us apart, you know? We talk about how important culture is, but what is culture? It ain’t government, or language, or any of that hokum. No, it’s the stuff we like. Plays, stories, marble collections.” “Cups?” Tress said. “I suppose,” Ann said. “Sure, why not? Cups. I’ll bet there are a whole ton of people who collect cups. But it’s not a cup alone that’s interesting.” “It’s how one cup is different from other cups.” “Yeah! Exactly.” Ann patted the cannon. “And I’m a cup who likes firearms. I love the smell of zephyr puffing out. You know the one? The electric smell of lightning? I love the challenge of trying to hit a distant target. Any dumb oaf can hit a bloke who’s next to them. But to get one on the next ship over, completely unaware, while he’s sipping tea? Bam, now that’s style.” She looked off into the distance. “I used to listen to the guns fire in the town. Every Twelveday festival. Well, that and the rare times when raiders tried to attack the port. Each time those shots sounded, echoing against the hills, I thought, ‘That’s going to be me someday.’” “I’m sorry,” Tress said softly, “that you never got the chance.” “Never got the chance?” Ann said. “I enlisted in the militia the day I came of age! Went right
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into the cannonade crews. Lasted twenty-four days! Right up until…” Ann looked at her. “Did you know cannonballs can bounce? It was the most lunatic thing. Still think I’m the only cadet in the militia who ever managed to shoot her own sergeant…when he was behind her…inside the barracks.” “Wow,” Tress said. Ann sighed, heaving herself up onto her feet. “Anyway, you should try shooting like Laggart told you. Try to fire them so they pass over the buoy, using long fuses for now. Then adjust for the next shot down. Even the best cannoneers use an exploratory shot—helps them judge the wind, get perspective, that sort of thing.” Tress stood, and found herself pricked by a certain lunatic sense of guilt. “You want to take a shot now?” That is probably the craziest, most reckless thing I’ve ever heard someone say—and I was literally part of a secret plot to kill God. “Ha ha,” Ann said. “You… Wait, you’re serious?” Tress nodded. “You seem to miss it so much.” Ann leaned in close, inspecting Tress. “You don’t even look afraid. You really are one of them.” Transitive property of ineptitude. Trust me. Ann stepped over and put her hand on the cannon, then glanced at Tress. “Laggart will be mad.” “He told me to figure this out on my own,” Tress said. “And not to bother him. That’s what I’m doing. Asking an expert for advice.” Ann looked back at the cannon. Then at Tress yet again. “Really?” “I’ve lost things,” Tress said softly. “And it’s…not going to be easy to get them—him—back. But the thing you want is right here. So, let’s make it happen.” Ann smiled again, then glanced at the buoy. She cranked the cannon to the side. Then cranked it some more. Then some more. “Um, Ann?” Tress said, pointing. “The buoy is that way.” Ann followed her pointing, then looked at the cannon—which was at least thirty degrees off. “Looks good to me.” “Trust me,” Tress said. “Crank it back.” Ann did so reluctantly. She grabbed the firing rod from its bucket. Then—grinning like an undertaker in a war zone—she fired. Both of them waited, anticipating the worst. And Tress did smell a distinctive metallic scent. The cannonball hit the Verdant Sea behind, then vanished. Without harming anyone. I’ll be honest, I was a little surprised myself. “Thank you,” Ann said softly. “Thank you.” “It wasn’t really anything,” Tress said. “It was everything,” Ann said. “I was beginning to believe, Tress. What they said. About me being cursed. I’m not. I just…well, I have bad aim.” She looked out over the ocean, then wiped her eyes. “Not cursed. You don’t understand how much I needed to know that.” “Join me each day,” Tress said. “Take a shot with me. We can get better together.” “Deal.” “Oh,” Tress said. “One other thing. Do you know if the ship has a flare gun?” “Of course,” Ann said. “You need them if you get stranded, or to surrender to pirates. Oh! Guess we don’t need to worry about that
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anymore. Surrender means death to us. Anyway, you should be able to get one from Fort.” Ann excused herself after that—tears of joy aren’t exactly a good match with an unprotected part of the ship. Tress settled down, thinking about people and how the holes in them could be filled by such simple things, like time, or a few words at the right moment. Or, apparently, a cannonball. What, other than a person, could you build up merely by caring? Eventually Tress fired a few shots of her own. (They all missed too.) As she was cleaning up afterward, the ship finally turned upon the captain’s order. This time no rains chased them off as they entered the Crimson Sea. The following evening, Tress took stock of the ship’s cooking ingredients. What she found was not inspiring. Stale flour, very few useful seasonings, rancid oil. And the ship’s oven? Fueled by sunlight spores in a way that made the kilnlike device heat in an impossibly uneven way. A quick test of wet flour on a baking pan proved that. No wonder Fort had difficulty cooking anything without burning it. Indeed, it was possible he did it on purpose in order to cover up the awful flavor of the ingredients. She gave him a look with folded arms, and he shrugged. They didn’t need his writing board for that exchange. “All right,” she said, handing him the bottle of rancid oil. “Toss this overboard. It’s too far gone.” He regarded it with a thoughtful eye, the bottle looking much smaller in his enormous hands, held between two curled, broken fingers. He was so big, Tress couldn’t help wondering if he was fully human—which was understandable, but all joking aside, Fort was a hundred percent human. Plus at least twenty percent of something else I haven’t been able to determine. “Trust me,” Tress said. “We can make something of the flour, but there’s no good use for the oil.” That you know of, he wrote. You’d be surprised at the things people will trade for. He tucked it away. Together, they occupied the ship’s small kitchen, which wasn’t much bigger than Fort’s quartermaster office—though this room had counters running all around with cupboards underneath, broken only by the door on one side and the oven on the other. “Here,” Tress said, pushing a small pile of kulunuts across the counter to him. “Mash these.” Mash? “Yes, and do it in the mortar so you don’t lose any of the liquid. Kulunuts have a lot of fat to them, and we’re going to need that, since the oil is bad.” He shrugged, doing as she ordered while Tress made some small alterations with pans to turn the oven into a steamer. “For a more even bake,” she explained at his curious expression. “Steam is a good conductor.” But aren’t we making bread? “Nut bread,” she said, sifting the flour to check for any mold. Old flour she could work with, but moldy flour? That was far worse. Fortunately, this seemed dry and pure enough. “We
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need to avoid basic breads. Old flour has a bad taste, but it won’t make us sick. So we need something where taste won’t be too noticeable. Kulunut bread should be workable—and we can steam it.” He took her at her word, continuing to mash. Over the next hour, Tress found herself falling back into old routines. How many times had she cooked food for her parents, using whatever they could afford or scavenge? There was a calming familiarity about doing so again, if on a much larger scale. She hoped her parents were doing all right without her. She’d intended to write to them, but with all that had happened… Suddenly she felt guilty for having wished for more letters from Charlie. If his experiences on the seas had been anything like hers, then it was a miracle he’d found time to send her what he had. Fort didn’t fill the time with idle chitchat, and while you might ascribe this to his deafness, I’ve known more than a few Deaf people who were quite the blabberhands. Fort watched everything she did carefully—and she found his attention difficult to interpret. Was he trying to learn from her? Or was he suspicious of her? Uncertain, she popped out the first of her test cakes, sliced off a corner, and offered it to him. Fort picked it up between the sides of his hands. He inspected it. Sniffed it. Tried it. Then cried. This type of response will send any artist into a panic. Tears wash away the middle ground—all the infinite permutations of mediocre are eliminated, and two options remain: one sublime, the other catastrophic. For a moment, both interpretations existed in a kind of quantum state for Tress. And people wonder why artists so often abuse drink. Fort reached for another bite. Tress’s sigh of relief could have filled the sails. She went back to chopping gull—this, thankfully, was fresh—for the meat pies. But Fort tapped her on the shoulder. How did you do that? he wrote. I watched for sleight of hand. “What would I use sleight of hand for?” Secret ingredients. Swapping one cake for another, pre-prepared. “Are you always this suspicious?” I’m a quartermaster on a pirate ship, he said. “Well, there were no swapped cakes,” she said. “And no secret ingredients other than practice and resourcefulness.” He reached for a third bite. “How much,” she said as she chopped, “would you say a meal like this each day would be worth?” Fort stood up straight, then eyed her, smiling slyly. Oh, I guess that’s a matter for debate, isn’t it? “That third bite you took suggests the debate is already over.” He hesitated, mid-finger-lick. Then he typed, I thought you said you weren’t tricking me. “Curious,” she said. “I don’t remember saying that. I only stated that the bread was genuine. Not that I wasn’t trying to trick you. Care for a fourth piece?” Now, it should be noted that Tress proceeded with this conversation under a slight weight of guilt. She wanted Fort to like her,
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and she wasn’t generally one to demand trades or payments from friends. Yet she’d watched how he interacted with others. Fort wasn’t a selfish man. He’d not only been the one to haul her up that first day, he’d given her food when she needed it. He always seemed to have what people needed, quietly providing medicine, shoes, or even a deck of cards for a Doug in need. And he rarely took something of equal worth in trade. Yet with people like Ann or Salay, he’d bargain fiercely for the smallest items. Even ones they should be able to requisition from the ship’s stores. Tress thought maybe he was like her Aunt Glorf, who had always fought for the best deals at the market. She’d been afraid of looking silly by being taken advantage of. The guess was as wrong as ending a sentence with a preposition. But it worked anyway. Like ending a sentence with a preposition. Because it convinced her to bargain, even when she didn’t want to impose. Do this once for each day I fed you, Fort said, and our debt will be equal. “Now, that would seem like a fair deal,” Tress said, “if one happened to be using a rotting loaner brain that Ulaam dug out of his bottom drawer. The food you provided me, Fort, was practically worthless. I’d say that one good meal should balance out a few dozen terrible ones.” The food wasn’t worthless, Fort said, mashing some more nuts. He could hold the pestle in his curled fingers quite easily, pausing now and then to tap with his knuckles on the top of his board—which, resting on the counter, now displayed the words on the same surface. Food has a minimum threshold of usefulness, assuming it’s not poisonous. “It wasn’t poisonous,” Tress said, “but it sure tried.” It kept you alive, and a life is invaluable, I’d say. So my food, provided when you couldn’t get any other, was therefore priceless. “Ah,” Tress said as she chopped, “but the captain has repeatedly said my life is worthless. So your food, in turn, is the same.” If you have no value, Fort wrote, mashing nuts with one hand and tapping with the other, then surely your labor is barely worth anything at all. And hence, I should be able to employ you for a pittance. “Well then,” Tress said, “I suppose if that’s the case, then I’ll find some other way to repay you. What a shame.” She took the last piece of the test cake before he could grab it, then popped it in her mouth. Oh moons, she’d forgotten what it was like to eat without forcibly suppressing her gag reflex. Fort rubbed his chin, then grinned. All right, fine. Each day of work providing adequate meals like this pays off two days of meals I gave you. “Five,” Tress said. Three. “Deal,” she replied, “but you can’t tell the others that these meals are mine. I can’t afford to be roped into cooking breakfast and lunch as well. I
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have other work to do.” The crew will get suspicious if two meals are bad and one is incredible. “So the food is incredible, is it?” she said. He froze, then grinned again. I underestimated you. “Hopefully that’s catching,” she said. “You’re a resourceful man, Fort. You can come up with an excuse to put off the crew. Tell them you’re trying new recipes, but only have time to practice one a day. Plus, if we get that oven working, the things you make might not be so…” Unique? he wrote. “Unrecognizable.” A deal, I suppose. Assuming you agree to make dessert each day as well. The Dougs have been asking for one that doesn’t melt the plates before it can be eaten. “They’ve been asking for more of what you were making? Moons, how many of those bargain bin brains did Ulaam have?” Fort laughed out loud. It was a full laugh, but not like Ann’s raucous one. More unrestrained than uncontrolled. It was the laugh of someone who didn’t care how they sounded or looked to others. I’m wrong, she realized. He’s not worried about seeming silly by being taken advantage of. Well? he wrote. Dessert? “I want a flare gun,” she said, sliding her chopped meat into a pie tin, “with flares. Without questions.” He eyed her. Mask business? he wrote. “Maybe.” Will it help us with our predicament? He pointed upward toward the captain’s cabin. “I hope so.” Then you may have it. In trade for desserts for the rest of the trip. “Until we reach our destination in the Crimson Sea,” Tress said. I wasn’t aware we had one. Curious. Well, so be it. He wiped his hand, then held it out. She shook to seal the deal. Thank you, Fort said. Genuinely. “For the food?” she asked. For the trade. “Why do you like it so much, Fort?” she asked, leaning against the counter. I am a hunter by profession, he explained. It is a mark of pride among my people, and my family in particular, to execute an excellent hunt. “…Hunt?” Well, we’ve broadened the definition over the years, he explained. Turns out, a whole society of hunters doesn’t scale well. Who’s going to make the shoes? Bake the bread? Plan the weddings? He tapped, blanking the board, then continued, So, we choose our hunt when we come of age. This is mine. A worthy hunt, same as my mother. I record each great victory and send them home in letters to be hung in our family hall. “Wow,” Tress said. You’re impressed? Ann laughed. “I am impressed,” she said. “Plus, I have a friend who’d love hearing that story. I hope you can meet him someday. Is…your trade deal with me today going to go in one of the letters?” He laughed again. Tress, it would embarrass you to know how successful my hunt just was. Have you eaten my food? The first bite of bread you gave me was worth every meal I gave you in the past. And you have not only
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promised more, but are going to let me take credit with the Dougs? He winked at her. I’m going to brag about this catch for three pages! Now, hurry up. I want to try one of those pies. Cutting apart a spore-filled flare while distracted wasn’t the best of ideas—but admittedly Tress hadn’t decided to be distracted. It happened naturally, like a case of the hiccups or the inevitable and relentless entropic decay of the universe. As she pried the stiff wax-paper cap off the flare, she mulled over the pure joy Fort experienced when negotiating. It had always made her nervous to haggle at the market, as she didn’t want to make the merchants feel that their goods were worthless or their service unvalued. Yet Fort loved the haggling part. And Ann, shooting the cannon. Tress thought about her while carefully pouring the spores out of the flare. Had Tress ever seen anyone so excited about anything as Ann got? Even Charlie with a freshly cooked pie hadn’t looked so content. Tress tapped the flare carefully, then glanced at Huck, who had insisted on joining her at the worktable—but hid under a large soup bowl, holding it up an inch or so to peek out. He was mostly afraid of the spores at the moment, though she’d caught him hiding a lot more lately. Even when the cat wasn’t around. “What’s that?” he asked as a pink stone sphere rolled from the center of the flare. “The water charge,” she explained, holding it up to the porthole to show light through the pink stone. A shadow of water sloshed inside when she shook it. “When this breaks, the water floods out and ignites the spores. In this case, sunlight spores that burn with a bright hot light.” “Oh,” he said, lifting the bowl higher. “So those don’t explode?” “Nope,” Tress said. “But they could burn us as they create a bright flash and heat.” She set a cannonball on the table with a thump. “Now, one of these is filled with zephyr spores. So it will explode right good.” Huck pointedly lowered his shield. Tress rolled the little ball of water-filled roseite back and forth on the table. She remembered sermons on the various Moondays, held at the very top of her island. On the Verdant Moondays, they’d been able to watch the alignment of sun and moon. She had always felt she was missing something at those meetings, since the alignment—from their side—looked like any other moonshadow, which happened every day. But apparently the sun centered exactly behind the moon only twice a year. During such an eclipse, the preachers spoke about respecting the moons and about the meaning of life. Except every preacher who visited the island seemed to have a different idea of what the purpose of life was. Even two preachers from the same moonschool would disagree That part had comforted her. If religion couldn’t get it together, then she could be forgiven for being a mess herself. But now—as she dug in the remnants of the
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flare for the timer—she wondered. Each of those preachers had acted like they had the answer, like there was one purpose in life. All life. She understood the inclination. A single answer would certainly make things tidier. Two plus two is four. Water boils at a specific temperature. Also, the purpose of life is to learn to imitate the call of a marmoset. Go. For Fort, finding a good trade was the purpose of life. While for Ann, the purpose was to learn to fire a cannon without blowing the limbs off her friends by accident. So were there many answers? Or were they all the same answer with different applications? It should be noted that Tress would have made an excellent philosopher. In fact, she had already determined that philosophy wasn’t as valuable as she’d assumed—something that takes most great philosophers at least three decades to realize. She finally pried out the timer, then set it on the table. The flare gun, she noted, worked a lot like an ordinary pistol. You loaded it with a separate charge for firing. “So…what are we doing?” Huck asked. “Look here,” she said, prying a silver bit off the timer. Conical, sharp on one end, like the tip of a pencil. “This is what makes the flare go off. The silver breaks through the roseite core, which is filled with water. “What I’m going to do is reverse this. I’m going to put this pointed bit on the top of the flare, but facing backward. So when the flare hits something, the silver will be pushed back, break the roseite ball, and let out the water.” “I mean, sure,” Huck said. “That sounds like it would work. But why?” “I need to find a way to stop Crow,” Tress explained. “But as we saw when we attacked those merchants, a normal gun won’t hurt her.” “And you’re hoping a flare will?” Huck said. “Not exactly,” she said, then began to rebuild the flare. Not only did she put the silver detonator under the cap instead of at the base of the flare, she replaced the sunlight spores with sand and a few grains of verdant spores. She closed the device back up without the timer, then inspected it. “I asked Ulaam earlier today, and he said that the spores living in Crow’s blood will protect her from any weapon that tries to break her skin. So I figure I’ll stop her without hurting her.” “How on the seas would you do that?” “Same way we stop ships without sinking them,” she said. “I build a flare that explodes with verdant vines, then use those to stick her to the wall or the floor. If I can make this work, I won’t have to kill—or even hurt—her. I can immobilize her, then let Salay take over the ship.” “That’s brilliant!” Huck said, peeking out farther from beneath his bowl. “Do you think it will really work?” Tress loaded the flare—along with some zephyr spores—into the flare gun, which had a stubby, oversized barrel. She sighted
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down it, but didn’t pull the trigger—which would inject water into the barrel and launch the projectile. Testing this sort of thing in her quarters didn’t seem healthy. But how could she test it? She needed to be able to hit something solid to break the water cartridge, so she couldn’t simply fire it out the porthole. But she also didn’t want to let Crow know what she was building. She’d have to find another way. She set the gun down, then glanced to the side as Huck—finally abandoning his hiding spot—came crawling over. “Hey,” he said, “you look sad. It’s all right, Tress. You’ll find a way out of this. You’re good, and you’re smart. You’ll make it.” “If I do,” she said softly, “it will mean consigning Crow to death. Her disease will eat her from the inside if she doesn’t make a trade with the dragon.” Huck wrung his paws, his nose twitching. He didn’t say the obvious thing: that Crow absolutely did not deserve sympathy. Tress knew this already, and he knew that she did. Unfortunately, sympathy is not a valve, to be turned off when it starts to flood the yard. Indeed, the path to a life without empathy is a long and painful one, full of bartered humanity sold at a steep discount. To distract herself from what she was planning to do to Crow, Tress inspected the timer that she’d left out in reconstructing the flare. The small device looked exactly like the schematic had described: a bit of verdant vine for a fuse, already grown from spores, and a small glass vial, which—being far more flimsy than the roseite bead—would break upon firing. She pried out the vine, then—causing Huck to back up in concern—poured a little water on it. The small vine curled and trembled. She watched it for a time, then figured she should practice with her tools. The vine wiggled a little more vigorously. Tress hesitated, then leaned down closer. The aether grew steadily, though it was still no longer than her finger. Then the tip—the part that was growing—turned toward her. The little vine crept in her direction. Tress scooted to the side. The tip of the vine began growing in that direction instead. Her confusion deepening, Tress scooted her chair the other direction. Again the vine moved, leaving a zigzag in its expanding length as the tip followed her. It was running out of water, so she wet it again. Then she got down low, watching it creep toward her. Was it…looking for something? Back home, she’d found some weeds in a dim shed that had somehow survived the salt. Those weeds had all grown directly toward the single knothole of light in the boards. “What are you doing?” Huck said, cautiously approaching. She put out her finger and the tip of the vine grew toward it, then became a little corkscrew as she made a spiraling motion. It responded to her, not Huck. Because he’s a rat? Or…because he’s frightened of it? But she was scared of spores
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too, wasn’t she? Except this little vine wasn’t dangerous. So…no, she didn’t feel afraid. Not at the moment. When she’d used the midnight spores, she’d been attached to the creation. Curiously, she felt something similar at that moment with the vine. A Connection. She thought she could feel it searching. It was empty, but looking. Wanting. I understand, she thought to the vine, letting it touch her finger and coil softly around it. Fort had his trades, and Ann her guns. But what did Tress have? She wanted to save Charlie, but that wasn’t her purpose. That was her goal. She glanced toward her cups. While she was still fond of them, she had to acknowledge that she really only looked at them these days because they reminded her of Charlie. The cups themselves didn’t hold the charm they once had for her. She had seen too much of the world now. Not merely the places either. The vine ran out of water and stilled, leaving her finger wrapped—but not with a menacing grip. A light touch. Curious, not dangerous. She found it remarkable. How could this be? The entire world interacted with spores—at least dead ones—every day. People feared them with just cause. Yet this one felt more like a puppy than a deadly force of destruction. Could the entire world have misjudged something so common? Though it seemed unlikely to Tress, it was true—and not that surprising. People consistently misjudge common things in their lives. (Other people come to mind.) Tress wasn’t discovering something completely unknown. Indeed she was realizing why spores and aethers fascinated sprouters. It all had to do with fear. While a healthy measure of foolhardiness drove our ancestors toward discovery, fear kept them alive. If bravery is the wind that makes us soar like kites, fear is the string that keeps us from going too far. We need it, but the thing is, our heritage taught us to fear some of the wrong things. For example, to our ancient ancestors, strange and new people often meant new diseases and the occasional spear tossed at our softer bits. Today, the only things new people are likely to toss our way are some interesting curse words we can use to impress our friends. Fear of something like the aethers? Well, it’s as natural as nipples, but nearly as vestigial as the male variety. And when one abandons certain fears and assumptions, an entire world opens up. I love memories. They are our ballads, our personal foundation myths. But I must acknowledge that memory can be cruel if left unchallenged. Memory is often our only connection to who we used to be. Memories are fossils, the bones left by dead versions of ourselves. More potently, our minds are a hungry audience, craving only the peaks and valleys of experience. The bland erodes, leaving behind the distinctive bits to be remembered again and again. Painful or passionate, surreal or sublime, we cherish those little rocks of peak experience, polishing them with the ever-smoothing touch of recycled proxy living. In so
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doing—like pagans praying to a sculpted mud figure—we make of our memories the gods which judge our current lives. I love this. Memory may not be the heart of what makes us human, but it’s at least a vital organ. Nevertheless, we must take care not to let the bliss of the present fade when compared to supposedly better days. We’re happy, sure, but were we more happy then? If we let it, memory can make shadows of the now, as nothing can match the buttressed legends of our past. I think about this a great deal, for it is my job to sell legends. Package them, commodify them. For a small price, I’ll let you share my memories—which I solemnly promise are real, or will be as long as you agree not to cut them too deeply. Do not let memory chase you. Take the advice of one who has dissected the beast, then rebuilt it with a more fearsome face—which I then used to charm a few extra coins out of an inebriated audience. Enjoy memories, yes, but don’t be a slave to who you wish you once had been. Those memories aren’t alive. You are. Personally, I don’t think I gave proper attention to just how beautiful Tress’s world was. To me, it was a backwater planet drowning in the dross of the aethers, which are more useful in other incarnations—and far easier to harvest on the moons themselves anyway. And yet, nowhere else in my travels have I witnessed anything like those spores. As we sailed the Crimson, I felt like a leaf floating on the blood of a fallen giant. The farther we went, the higher the Crimson Moon soared—dark and ominous in the day, often haloed by sunlight. A clot upon the light. At night, it burst aflame with its own unblinking, preternatural glow. At first we were too far away to see the sporefall, but as we closed the distance, the lunagree appeared. A fountain from the sky, pouring down into the center of the sea. The verdant spores had always looked like pollen in the air, but this felt like a lava flow. Erupting from the heavens to melt away the planet. I wasn’t in my right mind during the trip, but I could still see. And the polished bits of that land in my memory are always striking images. Surreal, spellbinding pictures of magic so dominant it literally fell from the sky. I believe Tress might have been more pleased if the view hadn’t been so stunning. She’d have had a better chance of keeping my attention. “Would you please focus, Hoid?” the girl asked. I pointed at the distant red moon, the spores streaming down to fill the sea. “It looks like the moon is throwing up.” Tress sighed. “Imagine that the sea is the toilet,” I said, “and the moon is the face of a god, heaving onto us after a long night of getting spun around and around on a bar stool.” I actually composed a poem about a vomiting
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