That and the sword convince the crabs they’ve lost the day. They leave the field sideways, each with one eye curled over its shoulders like an upraised finger.
When he can’t hear their clicking anymore, Jeryon says, “I’m sick of crab too.”
4
* * *
Jeryon tries to line up the rips in his sleeve. “I don’t think I can mend this.”
“Good. Tear it off. I need it for a bandage.”
“It’s just a flesh wound.”
“You can live without a sleeve, not without an arm.”
“I’ve known plenty of one-armed sailors,” he says. Nonetheless, he tears off the sleeve while she hacks off a long piece of the vine with her sword. Then he cuts off the other sleeve with his blade. “Balance,” he says.
Everlyn upends the vine over his arm and hand. Water trickles out to clean his wounds and wash away the seeping blood.
“A water vine?” he says.
“Exactly.” Lubber. She takes a swallow and hands him the vine. “You can eat the fruit too.”
He twists one off, bites it, and makes a face.
“Too bitter?” she says.
“Looks like a plum. Thought it would taste like one.”
She takes a big bite of one herself. “I like bitter.”
“I like tart.”
“Then we’ll get along just dandy,” she says.
“What choice do we have?” he says.
Everlyn takes a roll of thick aloe leaves from her smock. With his blade she scores them to release their medicinal juices, then uses the sleeves to bind the leaves to the wounds. “I’ll disinfect them with seawater after they’ve clotted,” she says.
He wipes his blade on his pants and pockets it. “Where are your hair pins?”
“Lost at sea. But this island more than makes up for it.” She produces a sprig of leaves with a blue flower. “Boneset. It’s a pain reliever. Chew it.”
After a moment he says, “I feel pretty good. Kind of invincible.”
“That’s just what it’s like not to hurt after so long.” She chews a wad herself.
He looks at the bandages. “These, and back there: How can I repay you?”
“Make me lunch. Then get me off this island.”
At the beach, Jeryon kills two crabs. While he piles their meat on one of their carapaces, Everlyn pulls up her smock and sits with her bare legs stretched out on the sand. A misshapen target, dark purple ringing yellow, covers her ankle. She scratches it with the ornate brass cap on her sword sheath. He asks, “Where did you get the sword?”
“Not, ‘Where did you get the bruise?’ ”
“Where did you get the bruise?”
“I twisted my ankle badly when I washed up. If I hadn’t found the boneset by the pond where I made camp, you might have found me by my screaming. I couldn’t walk until this morning.”
“That’s when you found the sword?” He feeds the fire, crushes olives into his cooking shell, and sets it to warm.
“Yes.” There’s more to her story, but why should she bother? “On the south side of the island beneath a large patch of yellow asphodel.”
He looks at her blankly.
“King’s spear. Cousin of aloe.”
“Ah.” Jeryon lays crab meat in the oil to sizzle. “What’s that got to do with the sword?”
“It only grows in patches when it’s planted on an Ynessi grave or where one of them died.”
“Right. Yes,” Jeryon says. “That’s piss blossom. They use it like dogs to mark their territory. The streets of Yness are covered with it. So you dug?”
Everlyn waggles her filthy, ragged fingernails. “You said Ynessi pirates might work these waters. Perhaps one had been buried there with something useful.”
“The Ynessi are sentimental that way,” Jeryon says. “Probably shrouded him in sailcloth too.”
“It would’ve been sad if they hadn’t,” she says. “I’m hardly sentimental, but I want my shroud.”
“Waste of cloth. And the time spent digging. If it comes to that, give my body back to the waves.” He flips the meat. “Make the crabs work for their vengeance.”
Everlyn rolls the sheathed sword over her lap. She doesn’t want to think about that. Or what a Hanoshi might do with her body.
“Of course, their waste is our reward,” Jeryon says.
She draws the blade. “It would’ve been a waste had they buried it without its scabbard. The leather rotted away, but the metal sheath has an oiled fur lining that kept the blade sharp.” She holds it so the sun glares on the spider rust. “I think it’s from the far north. It’s bigger than a spatha.”
“I didn’t think pothing required a knowledge of swords.”
“A tool’s a tool. I would’ve preferred a kopis. Or an axe. Beggars and choosers, though.”
Jeryon snorts in agreement and adds just a touch more olive.