“What?” she demanded.
“Didn’t get a good look at you when they brought you down. I didn’t realize…didn’t expect you to be so young. You’re no royal inspector.”
“I have a young face.”
“I’m sure,” the rat said. He moved to the edge of his cage and sat on his haunches, leaning forward, tiny paws together. It was a very ratlike pose, which Tress supposed made sense.
“You’re sneaking off the island,” he said. “Why under the moons would you do that?”
“I told you,” Tress snapped. “Nobody wants to be on Diggen’s Point. Anyway, the sailors bought my act, so you don’t need to keep staring at me like that. My escape plan worked.”
“Save for the whole ‘accidentally frightening a bunch of smugglers’ part, I assume.”
Tress wiped her eyes once more. “Can we maybe backtrack on this conversation? It looks like we missed the main roadway. I don’t mean to be rude, but you are a rat.”
“Seems self-evident.”
“But you’re talking.”
“Again, self-evident.”
“Yes, but…but how?”
“With my mouth,” he said. “Also, reference my previous answer.”
She bit her lip. It was a testament to her state of mind that she’d pushed him that far already. Was asking a talking rat why he could talk impolite? She probably would have been offended if someone had asked her why she could talk.
The rat moved to pick up the cork. “There’s a story behind how I can talk, I suppose. It’s not one I’m interested in telling.”
“Huh,” Tress said.
“What?”
“It’s just…I’m not used to people saying things like that.”
The rat nibbled a bit on the cork, then moved it toward the hole.
“Could you leave the hole open?” Tress asked. “A little longer?”
The rat sighed, as he nearly had the cork positioned. But he lowered it to the cage floor again. The boots up above were stomping around quickly. Perhaps they were changing course?
“So…smugglers,” Tress said.
“Smugglers,” the rat agreed, sniffing the air. “Got caught chewing on their rations, and had to either give up my secret and talk, or get tossed overboard as a pest. Turns out they think a talking rat might be worth something. I considered warning them I didn’t have anything interesting to say, then thought it unwise to give them reason to doubt my value.” The rat gnawed more on the cork. “Because of the impending war, every second captain is a smuggler these days. So you shouldn’t feel too bad for falling in with some.”
“The war?” Tress asked.
“With the Sorceress,” the rat said. “She’s been sending more ships in to raid, and the king has been building up his forces—commandeering merchant vessels like a child reaching for treats. Seeing how easily you can find yourself conscripted these days, it’s no wonder so many sailors are having a bout of prolapsed morals, so to speak.”
“Do you think I could deal with them?” Tress said. “Explain that I’m not actually an inspector?”
“Oh, suddenly you aren’t?”
“I’m whatever gets me out of this cage. A friend of mine is in trouble, and I need to rescue him.”
“Him?” the rat said. “You left your home for a man?”
Tress remained silent.
“Hon, no man is worth getting killed over,” the rat said. “If you manage to escape, you should head on home to your rock.”
“He’s not just any man,” Tress said. “And—”
She cut off as a loud pop sounded somewhere outside. Tress cocked her head. What an odd noise to hear out on the ocean. Whatever could it be?
Fate answered her by sending a cannonball, priority delivery, right through the ship’s hull.
THE SPROUTER
The cannonball crashed through the far wall and soared across the center of the hold. When it hit the opposite wall, it burst into shards of wet ceramic and what looked like metal beads. Those scattered to the floor, mixing with splinters of broken wood. The deck above clamored with the sounds of scrambling feet and screaming men.
“What’s happening?” Tress shouted toward the rat.
He’d pulled back against the far corner of his cage, cringing and shivering. “We’re being attacked!”
“I mean,” Tress said, “what can you see out there? Go look through your hole!”