Tress of the Emerald Sea (The Cosmere)(72)

Uncertain, she popped out the first of her test cakes, sliced off a corner, and offered it to him. Fort picked it up between the sides of his hands. He inspected it. Sniffed it. Tried it. Then cried.

This type of response will send any artist into a panic. Tears wash away the middle ground—all the infinite permutations of mediocre are eliminated, and two options remain: one sublime, the other catastrophic. For a moment, both interpretations existed in a kind of quantum state for Tress. And people wonder why artists so often abuse drink.

Fort reached for another bite.

Tress’s sigh of relief could have filled the sails. She went back to chopping gull—this, thankfully, was fresh—for the meat pies. But Fort tapped her on the shoulder.

How did you do that? he wrote. I watched for sleight of hand.

“What would I use sleight of hand for?”

Secret ingredients. Swapping one cake for another, pre-prepared.

“Are you always this suspicious?”

I’m a quartermaster on a pirate ship, he said.

“Well, there were no swapped cakes,” she said. “And no secret ingredients other than practice and resourcefulness.”

He reached for a third bite.

“How much,” she said as she chopped, “would you say a meal like this each day would be worth?”

Fort stood up straight, then eyed her, smiling slyly. Oh, I guess that’s a matter for debate, isn’t it?

“That third bite you took suggests the debate is already over.”

He hesitated, mid-finger-lick. Then he typed, I thought you said you weren’t tricking me.

“Curious,” she said. “I don’t remember saying that. I only stated that the bread was genuine. Not that I wasn’t trying to trick you. Care for a fourth piece?”

Now, it should be noted that Tress proceeded with this conversation under a slight weight of guilt. She wanted Fort to like her, and she wasn’t generally one to demand trades or payments from friends.

Yet she’d watched how he interacted with others. Fort wasn’t a selfish man. He’d not only been the one to haul her up that first day, he’d given her food when she needed it. He always seemed to have what people needed, quietly providing medicine, shoes, or even a deck of cards for a Doug in need. And he rarely took something of equal worth in trade.

Yet with people like Ann or Salay, he’d bargain fiercely for the smallest items. Even ones they should be able to requisition from the ship’s stores. Tress thought maybe he was like her Aunt Glorf, who had always fought for the best deals at the market. She’d been afraid of looking silly by being taken advantage of.

The guess was as wrong as ending a sentence with a preposition. But it worked anyway. Like ending a sentence with a preposition. Because it convinced her to bargain, even when she didn’t want to impose.

Do this once for each day I fed you, Fort said, and our debt will be equal.

“Now, that would seem like a fair deal,” Tress said, “if one happened to be using a rotting loaner brain that Ulaam dug out of his bottom drawer. The food you provided me, Fort, was practically worthless. I’d say that one good meal should balance out a few dozen terrible ones.”

The food wasn’t worthless, Fort said, mashing some more nuts. He could hold the pestle in his curled fingers quite easily, pausing now and then to tap with his knuckles on the top of his board—which, resting on the counter, now displayed the words on the same surface. Food has a minimum threshold of usefulness, assuming it’s not poisonous.

“It wasn’t poisonous,” Tress said, “but it sure tried.”

It kept you alive, and a life is invaluable, I’d say. So my food, provided when you couldn’t get any other, was therefore priceless.

“Ah,” Tress said as she chopped, “but the captain has repeatedly said my life is worthless. So your food, in turn, is the same.”

If you have no value, Fort wrote, mashing nuts with one hand and tapping with the other, then surely your labor is barely worth anything at all. And hence, I should be able to employ you for a pittance.

“Well then,” Tress said, “I suppose if that’s the case, then I’ll find some other way to repay you. What a shame.” She took the last piece of the test cake before he could grab it, then popped it in her mouth.

Oh moons, she’d forgotten what it was like to eat without forcibly suppressing her gag reflex.

Fort rubbed his chin, then grinned. All right, fine. Each day of work providing adequate meals like this pays off two days of meals I gave you.

“Five,” Tress said.

Three.

“Deal,” she replied, “but you can’t tell the others that these meals are mine. I can’t afford to be roped into cooking breakfast and lunch as well. I have other work to do.”

The crew will get suspicious if two meals are bad and one is incredible.

“So the food is incredible, is it?” she said.

He froze, then grinned again. I underestimated you.

“Hopefully that’s catching,” she said. “You’re a resourceful man, Fort. You can come up with an excuse to put off the crew. Tell them you’re trying new recipes, but only have time to practice one a day. Plus, if we get that oven working, the things you make might not be so…”

Unique? he wrote.

“Unrecognizable.”