He perked up, then craned his neck. “Really?”
“Really.”
“You’d do that for me? Imprison me instead of kill me?”
“Laggart,” she said. “I’m not going to kill you. I was never going to kill you. I didn’t even kill Crow.”
He chewed on that. Then chewed on it some more. Then a little more. Those were words with gristle.
Laggart was not a smart man. True, the things he lectured people on could fill a dictionary—but what he actually knew would barely fill a postcard. That said, he wasn’t an idiot either. He settled somewhere between smart and stupid, perched on the very peak of the bell curve and assuming that it was the right place to be, as highest has to be best.
In that moment though, he understood.
Tress was willing to throw him in the brig. But…she wasn’t going to shoot him.
She wasn’t going to toss him overboard. She hadn’t been playing tricks on him. She had been honest.
She’d been kind to him.
This was the most difficult idea he’d ever been forced to swallow. You see, Laggart hadn’t known much kindness during his existence, and it’s a sorry truth that people often live what they know. He didn’t view himself as mean or callous. He thought the way he acted was normal, because that was how he’d always been treated. In the land where everyone screams, everyone is also slightly deaf.
Now, it should be said that there are people who escape such a cycle of cruelty. When you find them, cherish them. Because unfortunately, many continue like Laggart, never realizing the way they are. Until perhaps they experience a moment like the one that happened on that ship. Where Tress showed him pure kindness, forgiving his actions.
Yes, he was no longer confused. Instead he was horrified. Because he’d realized at long last that there were people who felt the things they said.
There were genuine people in the world. To a determined hypocrite like him, that changed everything. He stumbled to the door, shoved it open, and fled.
Tress, in turn, watched him with her head cocked. Blissfully unaware of the war happening inside the man’s heart. She didn’t demand he be thrown in the brig. If he wasn’t going to press the issue, she wouldn’t either. Instead she carefully tucked away her box of midnight spores.
And honestly, she felt a growing elation. She had a plan for dealing with the monsters. If she could defeat them, she would have overcome the final obstacle between her and the Sorceress.
She was close. Truly close. She felt like celebrating.
That lasted about as long as it took her to find out what I’d been up to the past few days.
THE TRAITOR
Tress expected a certain sense of reverberation from the officers as she left her cabin. She felt enthusiasm, relief, excitement. They had an answer to each of the problems they needed to face in order to reach the Sorceress. The other officers, naturally, should have returned similar emotions to harmonize with her own, making the music of shared success.
So she was confused as she saw Salay running up to her with a concerned expression. Apparently Dr. Ulaam’s treatment had run its course, but Tress hoped Salay had not grown any extra toes.
“What?” Tress asked, her sense of dread returning. “What’s wrong?”
Salay led her to the hold of the ship, where I sat in chains, happily thinking of great conversation starters like politics, religion, and your uncle’s overtly racist views. I experienced my tawdry ruminations among the remnants of the ship’s food stores. An alarmingly small collection now, as I’d happily dumped the rest of the stores overboard.
“We caught him with three jugs of water,” Salay said. “He was preparing to toss them out the rear porthole of the middle deck—where it appears he’s been throwing out our food stores for days now.”
Tress let out a groan. “How much do we have left?”
“Plenty of water,” Salay said. “But less than half of our food. Roughly enough to reach the Verdant Sea, should we leave now. And Captain…we saw birds on the Crimson only twice, and they don’t live in the Midnight at all. We can’t forage out here.”
They looked at me.
“I had to throw the jugs out,” I explained, “as the food is lonely on the bottom of the sea. Also, Tress, how does your uncle feel about seagulls taking his jobs and/or sandwiches?”
Tress looked at the gathered officers, then all of them turned to Ulaam, expecting him to have an answer. They foolishly assumed he could grasp the complex network of motivations, loyalties, and historical failures that made up the ever-changing web of my psyche.
“He is currently way too stupid to have done this on his own,” Ulaam said. “See how the ones he was going to toss out are marked with chalk?”
Well, all right then. Points to Ulaam, I suppose.
“The rat said my mission was absolutely vital,” I told them. “It’s also secret. So please don’t tell Tress.”
A short time later, Tress approached Huck in his quarters—her former ones, which she’d assigned to him. His very own room. Yes, it didn’t have silver, but it was more than most rats ever got. He’d been sitting there making a list of all the hats she owned. It only had one item so far, but he was an optimistic type of rat valet. What’s more, he’d been so nervous that he’d needed something to pass the time.
He looked at her. “Did the test with the midnight spores work?” he said, dropping the pencil and scurrying over. “I would have come back to watch. Should have. But…that’s not something a valet has to do, right? Be around midnight spores? They give me chills, Tress.”
“I…” She didn’t know what to say. It is an affliction that I’ve never known, but I hear it can be quite debilitating.
“Tress?” Huck asked. “I feel like you should be excited. Maybe enthusiastic. Certainly relieved. Yet…”
“I’ve discovered,” she said, “that our food stores are frighteningly low. Somehow, we lost count of how much we had. It seems…we have barely enough to make it to the Verdant Sea, should we turn back now.”
“Oh!” Huck said. “Well, that’s dreadful news, but I suppose with everything that has been happening, it’s not too surprising that something slipped through the cracks! We must make sail for the Verdant Sea, restock, then…” He trailed off, meeting her eyes. He wilted. “Hoid talked, didn’t he?”
“You’re remarkably good at reading human emotions,” she said. “For a rat.”
“Well, emotions are emotions,” he said. “Doesn’t matter the species. Fear, concern, anxiousness.”
“Betrayal?” she asked. “Is that emotion the same for both human and rat?”
“So far as I can tell,” he said, his voice growing very soft. “I’m sorry, Tress. I can’t let you face the Sorceress. I can’t. For your own good, you see.”
Ah, those words.
I’ve heard those words. I’ve said those words. The words that proclaim, in bald-faced arrogance, “I don’t trust you to make your own decisions.” The words we pretend will soften the blow, yet instead layer condescension on top of already existent pain. Like dirt on a corpse.