Tress of the Emerald Sea (The Cosmere)(58)

What if, Fort wrote, we were to persuade her to sail a different sea? One without so many people on it. That way we’d run into fewer innocents she could hurt.

“True,” Salay said, “but we’d have to get to the Crimson Sea or—worse—the Midnight Sea. But there’s no way we’d persuade the captain to do that. She wants to be where the ships are plentiful.”

“Actually,” Tress said, “I’m pretty sure she’d agree to sail the Crimson Sea.”

“Nah,” Ann said. “The cap’n’s got too healthy a sense of self-preservation. We’d never persuade her…” She trailed off, looking at Tress, and narrowed her eyes. “At least, no normal crewmember could persuade her of such a crazy idea.”

“I think it will be easy,” Tress said, uncomfortable. “Salay, you should suggest it.”

“After what I did earlier?” Salay said. “Captain wants an excuse to hang me right now. If I asked her to sail the Crimson, she’d toss me overboard for sure.”

“Do you really think you can convince her, Tress?” Ann asked.

Now, Tress wanted to tell them about what she’d learned: that Crow planned to sail the Crimson and get herself cured. And…it occurred to her that if the captain got healed, everyone would win. The crew wouldn’t have to be afraid of a spore eater, Crow would live, and maybe they could all stop being pirates somehow.

But if Tress were to explain how she knew what she knew, she was certain the others would be convinced she was a King’s Mask. Overhearing the captain was one thing. But admitting to having somehow stolen her private writings?

So, instead of explaining, Tress nodded. “I’ll do it. I’m certain I can make her agree to sail the Crimson. The rest of you can focus on the long-term plan: a way to take the ship back from her.”

So long as those spores are in her blood, Fort wrote, she’ll be immune to anything we could do to her.

“Um, pretend she won’t have those anymore,” Tress said. “Assume her powers will be negated in the near future. By…um…something completely unrelated to me.”

All three of them took another opportunity to stare at her.

“Right, right,” Salay said, ushering Tress out the door. “We’ll do that. You get her to sail the Crimson. If she agrees to it, I’m confident I can get the Dougs to go along with the idea too. Most of them are as upset at the killings as we are.” Then, in a whispered tone, Salay added, “Just remember our deal. Put in a good word for us with the king. Convince him we didn’t want any of this and tell him we helped you stop her. All right?”

“Salay,” Tress said. “I’m really not—”

“I know,” Salay said. “You can’t admit it. How about this. If you happen to have a chance to speak to the king on our behalf, can you promise me you’ll take it?”

“I suppose,” Tress said.

“Good enough,” Salay said. “And good luck.”





THE LIAR





Tress found the captain on the top deck, leaning against the rail at the bow of the ship as she poured water from her canteen into a nice tin cup and gazed toward the setting sun that seared the horizon. Tress stepped up, and at that moment the seethe stopped. Doug, the night helmsman, called for the furling of the sails, and the ship scraped to a halt. It was a quiet beast, slumbering to the gentle sounds of wind on spore and canvas.

Each time the ship stopped, the world felt suddenly out of step with its own music. There was no motion to compensate for, and the air was too quiet. The gentle grinding of spores was normally so constant that its lack became unnatural. Even the deck grew quiet as the Dougs went below to grab a snack and play cards until the seethe returned.

The captain didn’t acknowledge Tress. She drank the water from her cup, then dangled it from her index finger, staring toward the sun. As if she were a celestial executioner, sent to make certain the day rightly expired.

Tress didn’t speak up immediately. The captain had made it clear she wasn’t to be interrupted when enjoying a drink. Tress just hoped the woman wouldn’t toss the cup into the ocean when she was done. Yes, it was utilitarian in design, but so was Tress herself. She’d hate to have either be wasted.

The Verdant Moon watched overhead, covering a good third of the sky. I’ve often found it odd how little the people of the spore seas look at their moons. When I first arrived on the planet, I couldn’t help staring. There is a malevolence to the way they hover so close. Where most planetary moons stick to the walls and wait for an invitation to dance, these are already on the floor—and they are wearing sequins.

“Why are you here, Tress?” Crow finally asked.

Tress deliberated. If she outright asked Crow to go to the Crimson Sea, the woman would undoubtedly be suspicious.

“Well,” Tress said. “I wanted to discuss something.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Crow said. “I want to know why you are here on these oceans. What do you want?”

As if that were a simple question to answer. People generally don’t know what they want, though they almost uniformly hate being told what it should be. Plus, Tress had lived her entire life feeling she shouldn’t ask for the things she wanted.