“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.”
THE PIRATE
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, 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.