Tress of the Emerald Sea: A Cosmere Novel (Secret Projects Book 1)

WITH HER STOMACH FULL of “food,” Tress was able to return to the top deck and resume her scrubbing with renewed vigor. She didn’t know how long it had been since someone had properly washed this deck, but it was coated with a layer of dead spores that had turned black with grime. It took real work to get down to the actual wood, and so her progress was slow.

“Wow,” Huck said from her shoulder, comparing the dark grimy wood ahead to the vibrant brown planks she’d cleaned, silver lines sparkling between many of them. “That really makes a difference.”

“Spore scum sticks to basically anything,” she said, scrubbing hard. “I’ve never found a better remedy than soap and effort. This wood is going to need some pitch when I’m done though.”

Tress knew quite a lot about sailors for someone who knew next to nothing about sailing. She had listened to many a man or woman complain about the life, which—to hear them talk—was an existence full of drudgery. Many an off-duty sailor in the tavern had been assigned scrubbing duty before, so Tress knew that pitch on the boards would seal them and fill the gaps—plus it made them far less slippery. And you always scrubbed across planks, never along them, so you didn’t wear grooves down the centers.

Her head was full of wisdom like that: the wisdom of complaints. It also taught her the hierarchy of a ship’s crew. Most of the sailors would be equals, save for the officers. She’d met all of those except two: the ship’s surgeon and the ship’s sprouter. She’d never understood that last term, not until she’d seen the man use the spores on the previous ship.

She passed midday, and ignored her stomach as it started to growl again. It should have known better, after what she’d done to it at breakfast. Fortunately, she found out where to get new water—from barrels in the hold—and she was allowed a cupful to drink each time she went to refill her bucket.

Otherwise, she scrubbed. Tragically, this work—like washing windows—was great thinking work. And her mind was, as I believe we’ve established, often full of thoughts.

That is one of the great mistakes people make: assuming that someone who does menial work does not like thinking. Physical labor is great for the mind, as it leaves all kinds of time to consider the world. Other work, like accounting or scribing, demands little of the body—but siphons energy from the mind.

If you wish to become a storyteller, here is a hint: sell your labor, but not your mind. Give me ten hours a day scrubbing a deck, and oh the stories I could imagine. Give me ten hours adding sums, and all you’ll have me imagining at the end is a warm bed and a thought-free evening.

Tress’s mind spun around what the quartermaster had said about the cannonballs. What had gone wrong? She was so intrigued that when she picked her next section to scrub, she placed herself near the forward cannon.

Moments later, a Doug called to her. “Hey, you!” he said. “New girl! Yes, you. Come on now, I need your help!”

Concerned, but too polite to object, Tress stowed her bucket and brush. She dusted off her knees, then followed after the Doug as he led her down to the hold. Here he gathered some cannonballs from a bin.

“Carry that,” he said, pointing to a small keg near the wall.

Tress hesitantly picked it up, finding it lighter than she’d expected. “What’s this?” she asked.

“Zephyr spores,” the man said. “From the Sapphire Sea.”

She nearly dropped the keg in shock. Spores? An entire keg of them? She could see why he’d demanded her help. Indeed, he eagerly chose to carry the much heavier cannonballs, leaving her the task of lugging the spores.

“Why,” she said, “do we have a small keg of spores?”

“For firing the cannons,” the Doug explained. “Can’t just drop a cannonball in! You need something to go poof, send the ball flying.”

Spores? They used spores to fire the cannons? She carried the keg more gingerly as they started up the steps.

“Normally,” the Doug said, “this would be old Weev’s job, seein’ as how it involves spores and all.”

“Weev? Is he the ship’s sprouter?”

“He was.” The Doug’s expression fell. “Nice fellow. Liked having him around. He was terrible at bluffing, you know, so I always beat him at cards.”

“What happened?”

“Didn’t want to become a pirate.”

“So he got off at port?”

“Oh, he got off,” the Doug said. “But there wasn’t no port…” He glanced toward Captain Crow, who stood on the quarterdeck sipping at her canteen, wind blowing the black feather in her hat.

“Captain killed him?” Tress whispered.

“He was the only one who stood up to her,” the Doug said, “when she proposed this new occupational direction. Well, Weev is occupyin’ the bottom of the ocean now. Sprouters are a crazy lot, always spendin’ more time than’s right around spores. But he didn’t deserve that. Just for askin’ questions we was all thinkin’.”

He fell silent. At least she now knew why she hadn’t met the ship’s sprouter yet. And now you know why I didn’t tell you to remember his name. Also, no, he’s not the corpse. Well, he’s a corpse. But he’s not the corpse on the ship. There’s another. Try to keep up.

The Doug led Tress to the cannonmaster’s station. Laggart wasn’t there at the moment, and the forecannon was lashed in place with its paraphernalia. The Doug began unloading cannonballs into a bin.

“All right,” he said to Tress. “I’m going to go get a few more cannonballs to refill the stock. See that big barrel there? It’s lined, like that keg you’re holding, with stuff that protects spores from our silver. We need spores alive for shooting cannonballs at other folks.

“The cannonmaster though, he needs those spores in little pouches he can stuff into the cannon easily during a fight. You’ll find empty pouches in the barrel. What you need to do is pour those spores into the pouches—without spilling any—and tie them off. Also, you got to do your pouring inside the larger barrel, because of the lining that protects the spores.”

The Doug shifted uncomfortably on the deck, his hands in his pockets, looking at her.

“Very well,” Tress said.

“No complaints?” he asked.

She shook her head. She’d rather not do the work, as she was terrified of spores. But she also couldn’t let that fear inconvenience the others. After all, she was newest on the ship. It made sense that she should do the dangerous work no one else wanted.

Tress moved over to the barrel and took off the lid. At the bottom were some filled pouches; a bunch of empty ones were in a little net attached to the outside.

“You’re…really not going to complain?” the Doug asked. “I complained when they made me do it.”

“You’re probably smarter than I am,” Tress said. “Any tips?”

“There’s a funnel, some goggles, and a mask. Other than that…try not to worry. This ain’t the most dangerous type of spores. You should be fine.”

Many perils could fit between the sounds in “should be.” But Tress was alive because the crew had resisted tossing her overboard when the captain had demanded. It seemed best to stay in their good graces. So Tress simply nodded and got to work.