Tress of the Emerald Sea (The Cosmere)(14)

The ship sailed like any ship would on water. But it could move only as long as the air bubbled up from below; the people on Tress’s world called this phenomenon “the seethe.” It came and went randomly, fluidizing entire oceans for days at a time. Periodically it would cease—stranding all the ships sailing upon it. Interruptions were usually short, but occasionally lasted hours or even days.

A wave broke high against the side of the ship, tossing up a burst of spores. Tress cried out despite herself and backed away, but the spores turned grey, dying.

“Haven’t sailed much, eh?” the captain asked from nearby. He had terrible breath, a crispy tan complexion, and stringy, matted hair. Imagine him as the answer to the question: “What if that gunk from your shower drain were to come to life?”

Still, he was the best option Tress had found in her weeks of watching, so she wasn’t going to complain. Even if he did laugh at her again the next time the spores surged.

“We have silver enough,” the captain said, waving toward the trim on the railing and built into the wood of the deck. A line of it ran up the mast. “Kills any spores that come too close, Inspector. You’re safe.”

Tress nodded, trying to look as if she didn’t care. But she kept her coat buttoned up tight and found herself breathing shallowly and wishing for a salted mask.

Instead, she brought out her notebook and worked on her plan. She’d made it off the island. Next, she needed only to wait. The vessel would deliver her to the king’s island in the Core Archipelago. From there, Tress had to find her way into the palace so she could get a copy of Charlie’s ransom note.

That would be the easiest way to free him. Yes, paying off a ransom herself would be next to impossible, but it did seem easier than sneaking across the Midnight Sea to confront the Sorceress. Hopefully if she could find a way to pay—or persuade the king to pay—Charlie would be delivered to her, safe.

The deck creaked as the captain stepped nearer. “You have beautiful hair, Inspector,” he said. “The color of a good cup of mead!”

Tress snapped her book closed. “Perhaps I will retire to my cabin now.”

He smiled. The man was exactly the sort of person who thought every woman in the room was thinking about him. Which they were, as each desperately hoped he would head the other direction. He waved for Tress to join him in walking down from the quarterdeck toward the cabins below it.

Thankfully, the captain left her without needing to be ordered. The room was small but private, and the door locked. Tress felt a great deal better once she was safe inside. She poured some water into her butterfly cup and settled onto the bunk to think.

It all felt so much more real now. Was she really doing this? Had she really left her home? What were those strange colorful pigeons, and why were they talking to her?

This last part was a side effect of the poison the captain had ordered put in Tress’s drink. There are, unfortunately, no talking pigeons in this story. Merely talking rats.





THE RAT





Tress awoke. That was nice.

Tress very much approved of not dying on the first day of her adventure. However, she had a pounding headache, and all she could see was blackness. Did one see blackness, or was it the mark of not seeing? Can you hear silence? Taste nothing?

Well, judging by the creaking of the wood, she was in the ship’s hold. She groaned and sat up, then felt around. Her fingers met bars. She was in a cage.

“You won’t find a way out,” said a quiet voice. It sounded male, but had a pinched quality to it, like someone had taken the speaker’s words and was squeezing out the juice.

“Who are you?” Tress asked softly.

“A fellow prisoner. I heard them talking about you. You’re an inspector?”

“Yes,” Tress lied. “For the king. I can’t believe they’d dare assault me.”

On the inside, Tress was panicking. The captain must have figured out her ruse. The ship would be returning to Diggen’s Point to find the real inspector, and everything would fall apart.

No. It had already fallen apart.

She sat down, her back to some bars.

“Lunatic choice you made, Inspector,” the voice said. “You boarded the ship alone? How did you think this would play out? Were you planning to take them all on your own?”

“Take them?” Tress asked. “Where?”

“You…don’t know?”

In case you’re new to this, nothing good ever follows a question like that.

“This is a smugglers’ vessel,” the voice explained. “They forged mercantile writs from the king. It lets them buy and sell goods without paying tariffs.”

Tress groaned, thumping her head against the bars. “And they thought I was suspicious of them. They thought that’s why I got on their ship.”

“It wasn’t?” the voice said, then started laughing. Or rather, Tress thought it was laughter. It came out as a high-pitched series of squeaks—like the sound of a hyperventilating donkey. “It was completely coincidental? Oh, you poor woman.”

Tress folded her arms tight in the darkness, suffering the mockery. At least she wasn’t going to be taken back to Diggen’s Point to be turned in to the duke. Instead the smugglers would undoubtedly murder her and dispose of the body.