Tress of the Emerald Sea (The Cosmere)(70)

“Why do you think?” Ann asked. “Any guesses?”

“No. I…did ask Fort, and he said he thought you must have been a slave or something when you were a child. He thinks firing guns is about controlling your surroundings. Having access to power.”

“Huh,” Ann said, settling onto a box of extra cannonballs. “And he’s normally so good at figuring people out.”

“So you weren’t a slave as a child, I take it?”

“Farm girl,” she said. “Raised chickens. It was a great life. You know, chickens are really intelligent and make great pets.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. It’s a bloody shame they’re so delicious. Any other guesses about me?”

“Well,” Tress said, “I asked Salay, and she figured that you see cannons and firearms as symbols of authority, so you want to be in charge of them because people take carpentry for granted—and you want a more important job.”

“Ah, well,” Ann said, “that’s exactly what I’d expect Salay to say. She’s always been terrible at judging people. Like, really terrible.”

“I…um…might have noticed,” Tress said.

“Please tell me you asked Ulaam about me.”

Tress blushed more deeply.

“You did!” Ann said, pointing. “What did he say?”

“I didn’t really understand his explanation,” Tress replied. “It, um, was something about the shape of the guns…and cigars for some reason?”

Ann laughed. A raucous, untamed sound, full of genuine mirth. Tress couldn’t help but smile as well. That kind of laughter quickly overbooks a person and looks for additional accommodations nearby.

“So what is it really?” Tress asked as Ann’s laughter finally died down.

“I just…” Ann shrugged. “I think they’re nifty.”

“That’s all?”

“All?” Ann said. “You can basically define someone by the stuff they like, Tress. It’s what sets us apart, you know? We talk about how important culture is, but what is culture? It ain’t government, or language, or any of that hokum. No, it’s the stuff we like. Plays, stories, marble collections.”

“Cups?” Tress said.

“I suppose,” Ann said. “Sure, why not? Cups. I’ll bet there are a whole ton of people who collect cups. But it’s not a cup alone that’s interesting.”

“It’s how one cup is different from other cups.”

“Yeah! Exactly.” Ann patted the cannon. “And I’m a cup who likes firearms. I love the smell of zephyr puffing out. You know the one? The electric smell of lightning? I love the challenge of trying to hit a distant target. Any dumb oaf can hit a bloke who’s next to them. But to get one on the next ship over, completely unaware, while he’s sipping tea? Bam, now that’s style.”

She looked off into the distance. “I used to listen to the guns fire in the town. Every Twelveday festival. Well, that and the rare times when raiders tried to attack the port. Each time those shots sounded, echoing against the hills, I thought, ‘That’s going to be me someday.’”

“I’m sorry,” Tress said softly, “that you never got the chance.”

“Never got the chance?” Ann said. “I enlisted in the militia the day I came of age! Went right into the cannonade crews. Lasted twenty-four days! Right up until…” Ann looked at her. “Did you know cannonballs can bounce? It was the most lunatic thing. Still think I’m the only cadet in the militia who ever managed to shoot her own sergeant…when he was behind her…inside the barracks.”

“Wow,” Tress said.

Ann sighed, heaving herself up onto her feet. “Anyway, you should try shooting like Laggart told you. Try to fire them so they pass over the buoy, using long fuses for now. Then adjust for the next shot down. Even the best cannoneers use an exploratory shot—helps them judge the wind, get perspective, that sort of thing.”

Tress stood, and found herself pricked by a certain lunatic sense of guilt. “You want to take a shot now?”

That is probably the craziest, most reckless thing I’ve ever heard someone say—and I was literally part of a secret plot to kill God.

“Ha ha,” Ann said. “You… Wait, you’re serious?”

Tress nodded. “You seem to miss it so much.”

Ann leaned in close, inspecting Tress. “You don’t even look afraid. You really are one of them.”

Transitive property of ineptitude. Trust me.

Ann stepped over and put her hand on the cannon, then glanced at Tress. “Laggart will be mad.”

“He told me to figure this out on my own,” Tress said. “And not to bother him. That’s what I’m doing. Asking an expert for advice.”

Ann looked back at the cannon. Then at Tress yet again. “Really?”

“I’ve lost things,” Tress said softly. “And it’s…not going to be easy to get them—him—back. But the thing you want is right here. So, let’s make it happen.”

Ann smiled again, then glanced at the buoy. She cranked the cannon to the side. Then cranked it some more. Then some more.