Tress of the Emerald Sea (The Cosmere)(84)

I had, of course, responded by asking what she thought of my mullet.

Please stop trying to imagine that. It would be best for both of us.

“You made them?” Ulaam said. “Yourself?”

“I had some of Weev’s schematics, explaining how cannonballs worked,” she explained. “It wasn’t so hard to extrapolate.”

“Remarkable. I say, young lady, I must have your brain. Once you are through with it, naturally. Hmmmm?”

“I’m sorry, Ulaam,” she said as she hunted in her bag. Where had she put her notebook? She wanted to record that this design worked better than her previous one. Ten shots, and so far no duds. “Talk like that still makes me queasy.”

“You haven’t the nerves of a pirate yet, I’m afraid.”

“I know.”

“I could insert some. It’s a thirty-five percent agony-free process!”

“No thank you,” she said, pulling out the notebook and turning. She jumped as she found Ulaam standing next to her. The vines lay in a heap where he’d been standing.

“How?” she asked.

“I digested them,” he explained, “in a few key places.”

“…Digested?” Tress asked.

“He’s extra gross!” I said. “I envy him.”

“As you should, my friend,” Ulaam said. “By definition, I can do anything a human can—plus more. I see you are taking notes on your experiments, Tress. Interesting, interesting. You know, I could certainly—”

“My brain is not for sale,” Tress said.

“I was going to ask about your hands this time. Such excellent penmanship. My, my.” He smiled, showing a literally inhuman number of teeth. He says he does it because he figures an extra big smile should be extra comforting to humans. I can never tell if he’s joking or not.

“Hands,” she said. “Not for sale. Nor my knees. Or my ears. No body parts for sale, Ulaam. Ever.”

“Well, that’s quite definitive,” he said. “You’ve grown rather forceful, hmmmm? I remember when you first arrived, and you seemed embarrassed to turn me down.”

“I’m not any different now. I’m simply more desperate.”

“More desperate than those first few days on the ship?” he asked.

Tress hesitated, thinking back to those first awful days. Well, yes, she’d been desperate then too. She’d assumed herself to be as desperate as was possible.

Perhaps it was like lifting weights—her capacity for desperation was increasing with time. And there just wasn’t room for other emotions, like embarrassment.

“Regardless,” Ulaam said, “we shall move on. No more offers for now. Your plan with the captain. You’re certain the others will join you in this mutiny?”

“Pretty sure,” Tress said. “I…may have led Salay and the other officers to think I am a King’s Mask…”

“Oh my,” Ulaam said. “How did you manage that?”

“Accidentally,” Tress said with a grimace. “Somehow I seem to be best at lying when I tell the truth.”

“Wise words, wise words,” I said. “But tell me, have you heard my latest poem?”

“Excuse me,” Ulaam said, “I’m disconnecting my ears for the next two minutes.”

“What?” Tress said. Unfortunately, she was limited by her anatomy. She couldn’t disconnect her ears unless she wanted it to be permanent.

“There once was a farmer with a tulip bulb,” I said. “Who had nowhere to plant it. He found a place to sit. He then threw a fit. And accidentally mashed it into pulp. The end.”

Oh, gods.

Oh, Shards within.

What had I become?

“That’s…nice,” Tress said. And for a girl who claimed she was bad at lying, she pulled that one off swimmingly.

Ulaam returned to sensibility a short time later. “Ah!” he said. “You’re not bleeding from your ears, Tress? Remarkable. Is that all you’ll be needing from me today?”

“I suppose,” Tress said. “But…are you sure you won’t help? In our mutiny?”

“Alas,” Ulaam said. “I can offer only medical attention, should you require it. More interference would not be proper.”

“If we don’t get out of the Crimson soon,” Tress said, “the ship could end up sinking. That would kill you too.”

“Assumptions, assumptions,” Ulaam said, walking to the steps. “Hoid is immortal, and I am nearly so. While I don’t relish the idea of walking across the bottom of the spore sea to reach safety—partic ularly with him tagging along in his current state—that is not outside my abilities.”

I stood up to go after him, as a part of me—that piece that was slightly self-aware—kept trying to ambush him with bad poems.

I stopped next to Tress, however, who now sat with her flare gun in her lap. Staring at the floor. Outside, the soft hiss of spores rubbing along the hull was a steady companion. A reminder that we were moving inevitably toward the dragon’s lair.

Captain Crow estimated it was only two days away.

“I’m worried,” Tress said softly, looking up at me. “I’m…I’m terrified.”