As roseite crystals began to grow around the edges of the shield, Tress grabbed the trowel and pushed them away. She was able to angle them to grow toward the sides of the hole, like using mortar that grew as she directed.
Wind in the sails made the ship rock backward, lifting the prow. Tress barely got the crystals to seal the final edge of the hole as the ship crashed forward. Her plug shook and cracked. There had been water on the other edge, but the vines that grew because of it didn’t break through—and there wasn’t enough water for them to grow big enough to trap the ship.
The moment stretched, pulled taut with anxiety, trembling and holding its breath.
The patch held.
“Oh, moons,” Ann said. “You actually did it. Can you…maybe put another layer on, or…”
“Let’s not tempt fate,” Tress said, trying to pull her shield tool free. It was overgrown with the roseite and affixed in place. “I’ll probably need a silver knife to cut this off. Maybe we should try that when we’re docked someplace safe.”
“Yeah, all right,” Ann said, holding the ladder as Tress climbed down. “I’m just glad you were here. Until you took the job, it would have been my duty to patch that. I would’ve used wood, and that pause in the seethe was short enough that I wouldn’t have had nearly enough time.”
Another crack sounded above. Gunfire.
“This isn’t over yet,” Ann said. “Merciful moons, I hope that patch holds. Come on.”
THE SPORE EATER
Tress made a brief stop in her room to stow the box of spores and her remaining tool—reassuring Huck, who was hiding under the bed again—then hurried up the steps. By the time she arrived, the Crow’s Song was getting dangerously close to their target.
Three bodies lay bleeding on the deck of the merchant ship. The rest of the crew held up their arms, no visible weapons drawn. It looked like Laggart had tried another cannon shot—because another burst of vines covered the ship’s aft section, many of them overgrowing the enemy cannon.
Another of Tress’s swapped cannonballs had exploded instead of sinking the ship, but it might not be enough. The merchant vessel had given Crow plenty of excuses to be angry; Tress worried she would order the crew to slaughter everyone aboard that poor vessel. The pirates would have their treasure, and Crow would have her reputation as a deadrunner.
As the Crow’s Song slowed, several Dougs threw hooks with ropes over to the merchant vessel. Another dropped the anchor. Nervous, Tress looked to the captain, who stood with her musket at the ready.
“All crew,” Crow said, “swords out. Prepare to board.”
Tress felt a sudden spike of panic. No! After all she had done to protect those—
“Captain!” a voice called. Sharp, commanding.
Everyone turned toward the quarterdeck, where Salay stood, one hand on the ship’s wheel. She locked it in place, now that the ship was anchored, then walked to the steps.
“By tradition,” Salay called, “the duty to engage the captain of a captured ship falls to me, does it not?”
The Dougs kept their weapons trained on the merchant vessel, but none spoke. They knew someone was very likely to be shot in the next few minutes, and didn’t want to seem like they were volunteering.
Crow turned to face Salay straight on, musket held in a loose grip. The helmswoman did not back down, and Tress found herself praying to the moons.
“We have subdued them,” Salay said loudly. “They have surrendered. We became pirates for the freedom. Nothing more.” She stood firm, and her posture made her intent clear. She would not stand by and let the merchant crew be slaughtered.
If Crow wanted a massacre today, she’d have to start by killing Salay. Crow could do it; she’d done it to Weev. But how many crewmembers could Crow lose and still have a functioning ship?
“As you say,” Crow finally announced. “Let them know I do not…appreciate the bilging my ship received after they sent up the flare of surrender. That sort of…indiscretion costs lives.”
“They’ll pay more than the normal bounty,” Salay said. “I’ll make sure of it, Captain.”
Tress let out a held breath. Sailors started moving again, throwing more boarding hooks to keep the ships from drifting apart. Salay was the first to hop over to the merchant ship.
Tress sat down on the steps to the quarterdeck, worn out, now feeling like the washrag you find at the very bottom of the bin—the one that had been wadded up, then pressed flat for weeks by the pile.