Up above, some of the sailors were laughing, chatting with a jovial nonchalance about her struggle. Spores streamed from her boots as she hung there, scrabbling for a foothold on a small ledge running along the outside of the ship below the portholes.
“There it is,” Huck said. “Listen.”
It started as a low humming that vibrated the ship. Moments later the spores began churning, air rising up through them. The ship lurched—nearly shaking Tress free. Orders above led to unfurled sails.
Tress’s vine ladder slipped away, sinking into the suddenly fluid ocean. She glanced at the Oot’s Dream as it listed to one side, dragged down by the many vines that wrapped it. The entire thing bobbed, then capsized, before finally sinking entirely.
Vines mushroomed up around the vanishing wreck as men screamed, giving their water to the ocean, and the flock of gulls scattered. Tress’s current ship sailed past the wreck, but the Oot’s Dream was gone before they arrived. Just three lonely crewmembers remained. Two on pieces of wreckage, one in a small lifeboat. All three wore scarves over their mouths, their eyes squeezed shut.
Two shots sounded from the deck, killing the two on the wreckage. For some reason, the Crow’s Song left the man in the lifeboat alive. The sole remnant of the smuggler crew. An…ignoble end to Tress’s first voyage.
She clung to the hull of the Crow’s Song. Her fingers began to burn, her arms to ache. But there were no handholds above—plus, the side of the deck and gunwale extended out there. She doubted she had the strength or skill to get up over that, if she could even reach it.
So she hung on. Tight as she could, as the ship rocked and swayed. Faces periodically appeared above, glancing down to see if she was still there. Then they’d call out to their fellows to relay her status.
Still there.
Still there.
“Go,” she whispered to Huck. “You’re a rat. You can climb that.”
“Doubt it,” he said.
“You could try.”
“That’s a fact. I could.”
Together they clung there. For what seemed like an eternity. Finally she started to slip. Her aching muscles screamed, and—
A rope slapped the wood next to her. She stared at it, numb, wondering if she had the strength to climb it. Instead she snatched it, hung on, and tucked 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.