He gave the vine growth a quick glance, but apparently decided it wouldn’t do more harm for the moment, and so left it and walked toward the steps to the upper deck.
“Wait!” Tress called to him, grabbing the bars at the front of her cage. “That has to be a royal ship out there, right? If it’s firing on us, rather than demanding ransom or surrender? They’re here to exterminate some smugglers.”
“Better hope they don’t!” the sailor said to her. “You’ll go down with us, inspector or not.” He made a rude gesture toward her, which on their planet involved flipping his fingers in her direction, as if flinging water.
“That’s my exact point!” Tress said. “If they knew there was a royal inspector on board, do you think they’d be so eager to fire on us?”
The sprouter stared at her a long moment, then scrambled to grab the keys to her cell.
THE THIEF
The sight that confronted Tress as she emerged from the hold could have unnerved a dragon. The ship that had been firing on them was far closer than she’d expected—close enough that she could make out the sailors on the deck.
The enemy ship had two cannons, one on the foredeck, one aft. Now, you might have heard stories of great sailing ships with a dozen or more guns on each side. They hadn’t reached such heights on Tress’s world; many ships had only one cannon, and they kept them on swiveling platforms. Often a ship’s crew had a cannonmaster in charge of aiming.
The Oot’s Dream had a single small cannon on the foredeck. At the moment, the smuggler ship was heeling hard as part of a weaving maneuver, rather than firing.
Tress didn’t know sailing mechanics; she simply saw the enemy ship looming and watched with a slack jaw as their front cannon lobbed a shot toward the Oot’s Dream. It hit the spore sea starboard amidships, and—unlike the cannonball that had broken through the hull earlier—this one smashed on first impact, releasing its cargo of water into the spores.
A treelike burst of vines exploded into existence inches away from Tress. More twisted than a librarian’s love life （trust me, they’re a strange bunch）， it writhed with overlapping tendrils. It reminded Tress of her hair most mornings, before she got out her brush.
The gnarled vines grabbed hold of the ship, latching onto its gunwale. The vines that strayed near silver greyed and died, like spores did, but they held on tight nonetheless. It seemed this method of bombardment could rip a ship apart, silver or no silver. Either that or the vines would get a good hold and strand the ship in place, leaving it easy pickings.
Tress was shoved aside as sailors with axes rushed over to attack the vines in an attempt to cut the ship free. “That was too close!” the captain said, shouting to the helmsman. “Keep weaving, Gustal!” He stood nearby, and Tress could—regrettably—smell his breath as he spun on the sailor who had pulled her up the steps. “What under the moons are you doing with that woman, Dorp!”
“She’s a royal inspector, Cap’n,” Dorp said, gesturing to Tress. “I figured maybe if they saw ’er, they wouldn’t be so keen on sinkin’ us. Cap’n, sir!”
The captain’s expression turned from angry to excited. “Dorp, that’s the first good idea you’ve ever had. Drag her to the quarterdeck. Hoist her up high, if you have to, and let’s pray to the moons it gives those yaldsons pause!”
Tress bore the treatment with as much dignity as she could manage. They soon had her standing up on the rim of the quarterdeck, waving for everything she had, hoping that the red coat would persuade them to hold their fire.
Unfortunately, the attacking ship either didn’t see or didn’t care, because the next cannonball hit the quarterdeck bulkhead, smashing through and causing quite a clutter in the captain’s cabin.
The sprouter cursed. “What a stupid idea,” he snapped, dragging Tress by her collar as he went belowdecks again to check for more leaks and return her to her cage. Unexpectedly, a second after they reached the hold, the ship lurched.
It was so jarring that Tress tripped and fell face-first into the dead spores that covered the floor of the hold. She scrambled to her knees and wiped away the spores with frantic hands, panicking. What if a few live ones remained?
The sprouter had let go of her collar. “No,” he said, turning to stare up the steps. “No, no, no.”
The ship groaned around them, sliding to a halt. Then it fell quiet. Even the footsteps stilled—and it took her a moment to realize what had happened. The seethe—the bubbles that fluidized the spores—had stopped.