Tress of the Emerald Sea (The Cosmere)(80)
It wasn’t perfect control. Plus, she couldn’t do anything about the already grown vines and had to use the knife to cut herself free. But it left her wondering how far her control could go.
She carefully added more zephyr spores to each of her charges. The next experiments were less amusing. All three flew as she wanted, though one of the flares bounced free without releasing vines.
The other two exploded with vines just as she’d hoped. During the last experiment, she tried thinking about the vines as they grew, willing them to not grab onto anything. This time, instead of taking hold of the wall and the ribs of the ship, the vines stretched toward her—then the entire mass fell to the floor.
She spent the rest of the afternoon cutting the vines down and taking them up to dump out her window. She hid everything incriminating in her room with Huck—chastising herself for forgetting to lock the door on her way out earlier—and rushed to help Fort with the day’s dinner. He found her a distracted helper, as her mind was elsewhere. Why had one of her flares failed to release vines? What if she fired a dud when she was facing Crow?
She’d need to do more testing before initiating a confrontation. But she finally had a weapon. A surprise.
Crow was looking for someone who didn’t fear the spores. And that was just what she was going to get.
THE PROTECTOR
The captain authorized opening a keg of something intoxicating after dinner, which Tress considered a nice gesture. It proved the captain wasn’t completely heartless. (Granted, that meant Crow did have a conscience, but ignored it most of the time. Which is verifiably worse.)
Tress did not partake of the brew. She’d only been drunk once in her life, two years before at a holiday gathering when she hadn’t realized how much punch was in the punch. That day, she’d blathered endlessly about her favorite recipes. While Charlie had found it endearing, she worried a little alcoholic grease today might make her plans slip out as freely.
Instead she gathered up a plate of the night’s meal: biscuits and a strong meaty gravy with vegetables. It was basically stew you ate with your fingers, but it at least gave the illusion of variety. There was only so much she could do with the ingredients at her disposal.
The crew loved it anyway. After months of meals that bore an uncomfortable kinship with tile grout, one did not complain at a little repetition on a delicious theme. And—though one might not believe it after experiencing the variegated ways the Dougs could assault a language—the crew was not stupid. They saw that Tress was helping Fort. And suddenly their meals contained food rather than something merely—by the strictest definition of the word—edible. So when they cheered her as she left, it wasn’t only because they were mildly inebriated.
She felt undeserving of this attention, particularly considering how her actions had put them all in such danger. So she hurried to Salay’s cabin with a plate of food. Salay hadn’t made an appearance at dinner, and Tress worried about her.
Tress knew the right door only because of the number on it; she’d never visited Salay. Tress knocked hesitantly, and thought she heard someone blow their nose on the other side. A moment later, Salay opened the door, and though her darker skin tone masked things like a red nose and cheeks, her eyes made it clear she’d been crying.
“Oh, Tress,” Salay said, her voice as clipped and stern as always. “Is something wrong?”
“I brought you dinner,” Tress said, uncomfortable. She’d never seen Salay in anything other than her naval outfit, with stiff trousers and coat. It felt wrong somehow to be barging in on her when she was wearing a robe over a nightgown.
Still, the woman gestured for Tress to enter and put the plate on the desk. Tress slipped in, shocked to discover how small the room was. It was barely half the size of her own quarters. As helmswoman, Salay was the ship’s third in command. Surely she deserved more space than this closet.
“I appreciate the meal,” Salay said. “It was inefficient of me to make you bring it. I need to maintain my strength, of course. Today only proved that more…”
She pushed past Tress and settled down at the desk, taking the plate. Tress wondered if she should go, but Salay kept speaking, so she lingered.
“I keep thinking there has to be a way to avoid the rains,” Salay explained. She absently pushed the plate of food aside, then pointed at the unrolled chart on her desk. “There’s no pattern to them though. People have sailed the seas for centuries, and still there is no known safe passage through the Crimson. If it hasn’t been found by now…”
Salay stopped, then looked back at Tress. “You know of one, don’t you? A way to protect the crew? You wouldn’t have brought us here if you hadn’t known of a method, right?”
“I…” Tress said, then swallowed. “I’m sorry, Salay. For what happened to Pakson.”
“It’s my job to do what the captain and first officer cannot,” Salay said. “Or…or will not. Someone has to look out for the crew.” She pounded the table, then put her hand to her head, staring at the chart.
Tress settled down on the narrow bed beside the wall, sitting with her hands in her lap, feeling as if she were intruding. The room was remarkably bare of personalization. Some maps in tubes in a bin by the wall. Neat and organized chests for items under the bed. And a picture hanging above the porthole, lit by a flickering desk lamp.