Pride kills, Thanavar had said. Sometimes, I just had to disagree.
“Launch the second raft,” called Fahr. “Starboard, please. Our aim must be true if we’re to survive Bilgetown, lads!”
A second cheer, and Buck’s men heaved another makeshift raft over the starboard rail.
I looked to the helm. Neale was there, trying desperately not to look at me.
Sometimes, pride didn’t kill. Sometimes, it just filled a seaman’s shoes with chimeric at night and laughed as it ate out the soles.
It was a dangerous game but one I’d played all my life. I reckoned I’d gotten good at it. Still, I knew at some point my luck would run out.
That night, there was a gutted fish in my hammock.
15. TheAuctorus Circulaia
I was in the crow’s nest, working on a sketch of Kit. She wasn’t thrilled, but she indulged me as she leaned out over the platform, one clawed hand holding the shrouds, her bright eyes scanning the choppy waters. One of Worley’s swifts perched on her shoulder, and I was fascinated by the differences in their wings. The bones and tendons, the feathers and the folds of her strong, supple, leathery skin. They were like kindred spirits, and I wondered what it was like to fly.
“Have you ever been to Bilgetown?” I asked.
“Once,” she said. “Bad place. Stinks of shite.”
She looked back at me.
“They trade for wood.”
“Not treasure or gold?” I asked, and my mind ran through all the things a floating barge city could possibly need, like fresh water or grain or fruit or meat.
“Wood,” she said. “More valuable on the sea. They kill for it.”
“Kill?” My chest tightened. “You mean, like pirates?”
“Worse,” she said, then swung her elongated head back to the sea.
She was beautiful, I thought. A magnificent woman of sinew and skill, completely at home in the sky and the sea, sharp and tough and refined for her task. We’d become begrudging friends since sharing a berth. She’d been gone from her home as long as me, also alone until she joined theTouchstone’s crew. Once here, she spent most of her time in the rigging, either mending or stitching or watching for sails, and had poured her heart into honing her fiber-art skills. She was proud of her artistry and fulfilled in her magecraft. Suns, I understood her so well.
I was glad she let me sketch her. No, I was honored.
“Gap!” she cried and swung an arm toward the south.
“Gap!” cried a voice from below. “Gap, five degrees!”
And then the bosun’s three pips.
“Gap,” she said, and she turned her head to look at me, eyes shining. “Exciting the first time. Go.”
I grinned, tucked my journal into my sash, and climbed down the shrouds to leap onto the main.
The sea was rougher than I’d ever known as we skimmed the Sheets. The deck was wet and slick, and I was grateful I’d left my boots down below. Bare feet gripped the boards better than leather, and in this weather, a slip meant death if you went over the side.
Most of the crew had assembled on deck, and I turned to follow their line of sight. Five degrees off prow, and I narrowed my eyes, desperate to see anything through the dark, heavy cloud.
Sliver of suns while the corridor runs, said theTouchstone.Bring it here and bring it down.
Forge, she was remarkable.
Bring it down. Destroy it all.
When she wasn’t trying to kill you.
