“I’m just an apprentice.”
“Not anymore.”
The younger man sets his jaw. The stairs squeak with every step, the wood wet and swollen against their iron bolts. We reach the storage deck and step down into water up to our ankles. Down here, some sort of glowing moss radiates enough light to see that black streaks mar the hull in shattered webs of damaged wood. I hold in a gasp. I’ve no experience with lightning damage, and my only comfort is that if it were as bad as it looks, we’d already be under water.
The shipwright motions ahead. “It’s here.”
Halfway down, where the streaks of darkened wood intersect, water flows down the hull from a hole halfway up. Worse, cracks follow the lines of damaged wood, allowing sea water to seep in like teardrops.
“Looks straightforward enough,” Rune says, though I suspect the cheer in his voice is solely for the new shipwright’s benefit. “Where do you guys keep theplugs?” His eyes are already on a box down the way, but he lets the young man find it, then starts to pace, sloshing water around as the man scrambles for the right size.
“I’ll find a bit of extra sail,” I say, splashing my way to a stack of slowly-soaking fabric in the corner. My voice is raw and rough from shouting over the storm. TheSea Banehad been patched more times than I can recall, with all manner of plugs and fabric—usually not ones intended for the purpose.
Rune sighs, giving a cursory glance as I move away. “Just leave as much as we can. We’ll need it.”
“Not if we’re at the bottom of the sea,” I argue, too bone-weary for the words to have any bite. I bring the sail piece, trying to avoid stepping on anything sharp with my one bootless foot. It would do no good to survive the kraken, patch the ship, and then die of lock jaw. “You should go join the injured.”
He ignores my pointed look at his bloody leg. The pocket of his trousers had ripped clean off at some point. “Got that plug, Stiden?” The water has risen by an inch.
Stiden nods, his brow pinched in concentration as he takes the cloth from me and wraps it around the wedge of wood. It doesn’t budge when he presses it against the break.
Rune’s voice remains impossibly even. “The hammer, Stiden.”
I can’t tell if it’s sweat or seawater that drips down the shipwright’s face. “IknowI need the hammer, Captain, I just . . . I always washolding onto it before.”
Rune limps forwards, like the pain is finally settling in as the adrenaline wears off. “Well this time I’ll hold it, and you can have the honours of trying hard not to break my fingers.”
“Yes, Captain,” the man says, his voice thin as he hands over the fashioned plug and goes to the box for the sledge hammer. Rune holds it to the hole with both hands, angling his face away. A ghost of a smile flits over his face when he sees the way I’m already wincing in anticipation of a busted thumb or broken wrist.
The man swings, and I flinch when the slam echoes through the lower deck. Once. Twice.
In the silence, the stairs creak, and Tavi appears, her eyes flicking over me, then Rune and Stiden, who both examine the patch. The stream of water has stopped, though the crack webbed above and below still drips ominously.
“Alright down here?” Tavi calls, opting to stay on the third step.
Rune claps the shipwright on the shoulder again as he nods. “We’re alright. I’ll meet you up top, we’ll see if we can’t find Bear and let him know we need the resin warmed to seal this up. Then”—he says, facing Stiden again—“I’ll need you to scour every inch of the hull for signs of more leaks. Our next stop will be for repairs, but we’re counting on you to make sure the ship can make it there.”
The man is white as a specter, but obeys, following Tavi up the stairs with Rune and I at his back. Up top, the crew is gathered, most sitting against the mast or railings, others laying down, eyes closed against the bright of the sun.
Rune’s eyes skirt over the faces that turn to us, his face darkening.
“Otto’s in the galley, we needed more of the poultice,” Tavi says over her shoulder as if she can read his mind. She moves away to salve a man’s shoulder wound. Her clothes are ripped, but compared to everyone else her injuries appear minor—a cut on the back of her hand, a bit of blood soaking through her pants at the back of her leg.
Rune’s shoulders lighten microscopically, and he nods for the shipwright to go find Otto before kneeling next to Tavi, using a dark solution to clean a puckering rib wound on the woman nearby. His hands work with expert precision, flushing, salving, and wrapping. I join them, working through wounds as quickly as I can. Soraya leans against the railing, head tilted back, quiet tears streaking down her cheeks. One of her legs is clearly broken below the knee, and blood dries over angry slices on her dark-brown thigh.
“You’re going to be okay,” I tell her, my voice rough. She doesn’t even wince when I apply the salve.
“I know, I know,” she says quickly, brushing off the concern. Her voice quivers. “But Beron—” The words are choked off by the sobs that start to wrack her chest. I look to the broad-chested man that sits thigh-to-thigh with her. His tanned, scared arm rests over a wound in his stomach. His face is tipped back, up to the sky, peaceful.
He isn’t breathing.
The afternoon turns to dusk before those alive start to believe they might stay that way. Tavi sets Soraya’s leg, but several with electricity burns send Rune to the galley to consultwith Otto on possible treatments. We move the wounded below deck, and tally the dead, including those pulled from the water. I don’t look too long at Reid when they drag him with the others for wrapping and burial, but Tavi is too sharp not to note my attention. I avoid her gaze, but I don’t have it in me to regret his death. I’ve taken more innocent lives for less noble reasons.
I pluck a few slick, obsidian sea roc feathers from where they breeze around our steps. The feathers stay in my pocket as we toss the bodies to the sea and swab that deck for hours. When it’s done, I’m still restless, moving below deck, slotting in to whatever role that’s needed. My body moves through the work without thought, becoming one with the others that are healthy enough to mill about, fixing and cleaning and arranging a sick bay.
When food is ready, we quickly realise everyone will have more than they can eat.
“We should preserve rations.” Rune tells Otto as I and a few others help pass out food. “We don’t know how long it’ll take us to limp to the nearest port.”
