Tress of the Emerald Sea

“I gave them to Weev!” I said, excited. (In my defense, I’d thought them a kind of licorice.)

Ulaam sighed, folding his arms. Tress couldn’t help wondering if that squished the ear on his forearm, and what it felt like.

“Tress,” the surgeon said, “midnight spores are a very different kind of dangerous from the others. They need a persistent living source of water—in the form of the one who germinates them.”

“Like what has happened to the captain?”

“Yes,” Ulaam said. “But temporary, in this case.”

“But what do they do?”

“They create midnight aether,” Ulaam said. “Also called Midnight Essence: a blob of goo that will imitate a nearby object or entity. The aether stays under your control for as long as you sustain it. It is more practical than many of the other spore creations—but also more nefarious. If you practice with it…”

He paused, eyeing her. “When you practice with it, have a great deal of water nearby to drink, along with a silver knife. Most sprouters use midnight aether for spying, but be careful of creating a blob larger than about the size of your fist. So, four or five grains maximum. If your creation is too large, it is more likely to escape your control.”

“I…barely understood half of what you said, Ulaam,” she said.

“Half? Why, I knew you were smart. Your brain—”

“—is not for sale,” Tress said.

“Oh!” I said. “You can have mine! It keeps trying to tell me that dirty socks aren’t an acceptable strainer for pasta, and if that’s true, I do not want to think about it.”

Ulaam grinned, then plucked a little notebook from the inside pocket of his suit coat and began writing. “I’m recording the most embarrassing ones,” he said at Tress’s confused glance, “to share with him once he’s better. I suspect I can milk this for decades.”

He did.

“Hoid,” Tress said, “I need to find out how to get to the Sorceress. You were there, with her. Can you guide me, or tell me how to cross the Midnight Sea?”

“He’s not going to be of any help as long as he’s under that curse, Tress,” Ulaam said. “You’ll need to break it.”

“But how?” she asked. “You don’t know. Who would?”

My face grew thoughtful. During that time period, normally that would mean I was contemplating whether occasionally biting my cheek technically made me a cannibal. But today I was actually thinking about what Tress was saying.

For once it managed to sink in.

“I can talk,” I told her softly, “but I can’t say anything. I can tell you that you should always wear white to someone else’s wedding.”

“Which is talking but saying nothing. Nothing relevant, at least, about the curse.”

“Right! Now, this is important. You need to find someone who can talk and say things.”

“That describes a lot of people,” Tress said.

It was a struggle. The curse tied my tongue and brain in knots. I literally couldn’t say too much.

“Find…a person…who isn’t a…a person,” I said. “And can talk…when they…should not.”

Tress cocked her head. Ulaam stepped closer. “That was more coherent than anything he’s managed in months, Tress. I believe he’s saying something important.”

“It sounds like gibberish. I think he’s toying with me.”

“Hmmm. If that’s so, then it’s remarkably like he used to be. A person who isn’t a person? And who can talk when they should not…”

Tress frowned at me, pondering with that blessedly thoughtful mind of hers. Then it clicked. “A talking animal?” she guessed.

I flopped to the ground, letting out a relieved sigh. I was soon lost in thought, trying to decide if cobblers were also good at making desserts, or if that was merely a coincidence.

“Ah!” Ulaam said, clapping his hands—then cringing at the sound so close to one of his ears. “That must be it. He’s telling you to locate a familiar.”

“A what?”

“Powerful users of Investiture—magic, if you prefer—are often associated with talking animals. I’ve noticed you have similar lore in your world. Is it not so?”

“I suppose,” Tress said, thinking back to nursery stories.

“I’ll admit,” Ulaam said, rolling up his sleeve again and getting out a scalpel, “that on some worlds, my own species is the cause of these rumors. I don’t think that is the case here, however, nor do I think they are the result of an Awakener’s arts. Likely, the Sorceress and others like her have found ways to Invest common animals to enhance their cognitive abilities.”

“Are you even speaking Klisian?” Tress asked.

“Technically yes, though I’m using Connection to translate my thoughts, which are in a language you’ve never heard of. Regardless, Hoid seems to think you’ll be able to find a familiar—a talking animal, if you will. Such an animal would very likely be connected to the Sorceress in some way. Familiars are usually small creatures, used in spying. Birds. The occasional feline…”

“Or a rat,” Tress said softly.

“Indeed.” Ulaam proceeded to cut the ear off his forearm.

Tress was out the door before he could offer it to her.





THE FAMILIAR





She found Huck in her cabin, sitting on the bed, alternating between chewing on a stale crust of bread and reading one of Weev’s books: a notebook detailing the use of verdant spores. She’d left it on the bed, and it looked like Huck had nibbled on the corner of the book between bites of crust—though whether that was intentional or due to some ratty instinct, she could not guess.

“You’ve been lying to me,” Tress said, shutting the door.

Huck crouched down, his eyes darting from side to side, seeking the best place to hide.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were a familiar?” Tress demanded.

“Uh…” Huck said.

“Were you a companion to the Sorceress? Do you know about her? About how to reach her island? Have you been hiding that all this time?”

“Huh.” Huck sat up on his haunches, nose twitching. “I am…yes, I am a familiar, which is why I can talk. How did you find out?”

“Hoid,” Tress said, gesturing in the direction of the ship’s surgery. “It was difficult for him to speak through the curse, but he gave me enough clues to put it together. Huck, why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want to lead you into danger,” Huck said. “The Sorceress is a horrible person, Tress. You shouldn’t want to know anything more about her, and you definitely shouldn’t be trying to get to her island.”

Tress stalked over to the bed and knelt beside it, at eye level with the rat. “You,” she said, “are going to tell me everything you know about the Sorceress. Or else.”

“Or else what?” he squeaked.

“Or else”—she took a deep breath, nervous, as she’d never made a threat as dire as this in her life—“I will stop talking to you.”

“…You won’t throw me overboard or something?”

“What?” she asked, horrified. “No! That would be awful!”