Tress of the Emerald Sea (The Cosmere)(89)

“I’m impressed,” Crow said, slipping a pistol out of her belt and setting it on the table. A second followed. Then a third. “Consider me a…proud parent. But it makes me wonder. How many on this ship truly respect their captain?”

Fort was watching his board. He tapped a few words on the back. No one respects you, Crow. They do what you say because they fear the spores in your blood.

“Now, I thought you were the smart one, Fort,” Crow said. “It’s not the spores they fear. It’s me. Isn’t that right, crew?” She scanned the Dougs, most of whom backed away beneath her glare. “I do have to hand it to you, Tress. I—”

“Hand?” Dr. Ulaam said, perking up at the back of the crowd. “I have—”

“Shut up, Ulaam,” Crow growled, not turning toward him. She kept Tress’s eyes. “I knew I’d eventually have to deal with Salay, maybe Fort. But you gave me all of them in a neat package, with proof of their treachery.” She gestured toward the table. “Well, let’s get on with it. An old-fashioned duel. Three pistols. The four of you—well, three, as I see Salay is grappling with the result of her arrogance—against me.”

“Hardly fair,” Ann said. “Your spores will stop any bullets we fire at you.”

“Don’t fire them at me then,” Crow said, gesturing toward the quarterdeck. “Kill Laggart before I deal with the three of you, and I’ll step down as captain.”

“Captain?” Laggart said, stepping to the edge of the rail.

“Put your pistol away, Laggart,” Crow shouted. “And stand there like a good target.”

“But…” He trailed off as he realized that yes, she was that callous. He slowly put away his pistol.

“Well?” Crow said. “This wasn’t a negotiation. I’m not making an offer. It’s an ultimatum.”

Fort moved first, leaping for the guns. Crow kicked the leg out from the table—scattering the weapons to the deck—then surged forward and slammed her elbow into Fort’s face. Tress had never heard anything quite like the crunch that made. The sharp crack of breaking cinnamon sticks mixed with the dull thud of tenderizing a gull’s breast.

The sound shocked her, made her acknowledge what was happening. She’d been in a daze, but now she leaped for the deck, trying to snatch one of the guns. In the chaos, she lost track of what was happening—though I had an excellent view. Crow vaulted over Fort as he held his face, then slapped Salay’s hand—she’d tried crawling to one of the guns.

Crow snatched up that pistol, then nonchalantly tossed it overboard. She spun around and rammed her fist into Tress’s stomach, throwing her full weight and momentum into the swing. Tress’s breath, drive, and hope were rammed forcibly out her mouth as she crumpled around the fist.

There’s no hands-off way to prepare to take a punch. No conceptual training, no schoolhouse theory. When you get hit, yes, a part of you panics. But a bigger part of you is dumbfounded. The mind cannot accept that such a thing could happen, for nothing in life has prepared it for such brutality. It’s hard to internalize the truth that someone was actually willing to hurt you—even murder you.

That is an edge a person like Crow will always have over others. Her mind accepts these facts easily. She will hurt, and she will kill. She enjoys both.

She was grinning madly as she grabbed the table and slammed it into Fort’s face. It didn’t break, like they sometimes do in stories of bar fights. It was good solid wood, and it thumped against his arms—which were sheltering his broken nose—and sent him sprawling.

Crow tossed the second gun overboard, then looked for the third. It was in Ann’s hands, pointed at Laggart.

Crow’s grin widened, then she gestured as if to say, “Be my guest.”

Laggart started to back away.

“Leave your post, Cannonmaster,” Crow said, “and I’ll shoot you myself. Think very carefully about which bullet you’d rather risk.”

He remained in place. Ann’s arm started to shake. She looked at Crow and saw a woman with nothing to lose. In that moment Ann was the smart one, because she realized that no matter what she did—whether she hit or not—Crow wasn’t going to let herself lose this fight. She’d go back on her word if she had to. What were the Dougs going to do? Tell the king’s marshals?

But at least if she shot Laggart, they would have one fewer enemy to worry about. Ann steadied her arm. She aimed. She fired.

And she missed by at least half a boat length.

Crow laughed, then shoved Ann aside. The scrappy woman came back up with a knife and death in her eyes.

Crow chuckled and slipped something from her pocket. A stubby gun with a very wide barrel.

Tress’s flare gun.

Through the tears in her eyes—still stunned from the punch—Tress saw the captain fire it and hit Ann in the chest. The flare connected with a thump, and her body cushioned the trigger enough to prevent it from going off. So it fell to the deck, and there—hitting tip-down—it released its explosion of vines to wrap around Ann.

“For cheating,” the captain said, tucking the flare gun away. She absently slammed her heel into Salay’s wounded leg, making the woman scream in pain. Crow checked on Fort last—his face was a mess of blood, and he still seemed dazed.