Life aboard The Cormorant was a world carved from wood, rope, salt, and relentless motion. The vast indifference of the plains was replaced by the intimate, demanding indifference of the sea. Ash and Preston, now "Salt" and "Smoke" even in the privacy of their cramped forecastle cubbyhole, learned its brutal poetry quickly.
Their days bled into a rhythm dictated by the ship's bell and Varga's rasping commands. Dawn watch found them shivering on deck, hauling lines under the critical eyes of grizzled sailors – the "salts." Ash's height and strength were assets here, though his land-bound muscles screamed at the unfamiliar strain of heaving wet canvas or wrestling uncooperative ropes. Preston, smaller but wiry and fiercely determined, proved surprisingly agile aloft, scrambling ratlines with Perry's focused intensity, earning grudging nods from the bosun, a man named Jax with forearms like knotted oak.
The work was ceaseless: scrubbing decks until their hands bled and raw knuckles stung with saltwater, coiling miles of damp, prickly rope, mending tears in sails with clumsy fingers under the impatient tutelage of the sailmaker, and standing lookout watches where the horizon became a hypnotic, empty line. Ash felt the hollowness within him constantly. The magic remained dormant, a well run dry. He relied purely on physical endurance and the ingrained caution of a hunted man, his senses perpetually scanning not for Seekers, but for shifting winds, loose rigging, or the dangerous indifference of a careless crewmate.
Below decks, the galley became their unexpected proving ground. Borin, the cook, wasn't the flour-dusted, rumbling figure of Mr. Blair. He was a gaunt, sour-faced man missing two fingers, who ruled his tiny, sweltering domain with a greasy ladle and a vocabulary as salty as the brine barrels. His domain smelled perpetually of boiled cabbage, cheap fish stew, and despair.
"Land-lubber slop!" Borin spat the first time Ash attempted to help chop the rock-hard ship's biscuit. "Get out! You'll dull me blade!"
But Ash persisted. He saw the resentment in the crew's eyes as they choked down Borin's grey gruel. He remembered Mr. Blair's quiet pride in sustenance, in the small grace of a well-cooked meal. One afternoon, during a lull, Ash wordlessly took over stirring a vast pot of bubbling lentils threatening to scorch. He added a handful of dried, forgotten herbs Preston had salvaged from Westhaven – wild thyme and rosemary – found tucked in her pouch. The aroma shifted subtly, becoming earthier, less like despair.
Borin watched, his beady eyes narrowed. He didn't speak, but he didn't stop Ash either. Later, when the crew murmured appreciatively over the slightly less dismal stew, Borin grunted, "Less slop in the slop, land-lubber. Don't get ideas." It was permission, of a sort.
Preston found her niche as Borin's shadow and the galley's ghost. Perry's sharp eyes were perfect for spotting weevils in biscuit barrels before they became protein, or noticing when the water ration barrel developed a suspicious film. She learned to stoke the temperamental galley stove efficiently, maximizing heat with minimal precious fuel. She became adept at scrubbing the greasy cauldrons, her small hands reaching places Borin's couldn't. More importantly, she listened. She absorbed the crew's grumbles, the snippets of gossip about coastal ports, Varga's moods relayed by the mate who fetched her meals, and the subtle tensions simmering below decks.
One evening, as Ash carefully portioned out the meager supper – slightly improved by his pilfered herbs and a knack for coaxing flavour from salt pork scraps – Preston nudged him. "Watch Lars," she murmured, nodding towards a broad-shouldered deckhand with a perpetual scowl. "Heard him grumbling to Finn about Varga taking 'useless mouths' aboard. Thinks we're dead weight. Thinks the teeth-man brought bad luck."
Ash filed it away. Lars was strong, popular with some of the rougher elements. Discontent was a spark on a tinder-dry ship.
The sea itself was their constant, demanding teacher. Calm days were rare gifts, filled with the rhythmic creak of timbers and the sigh of wind in sails. More common were days of rolling swells that turned the deck into a treacherous, shifting slope, forcing them to move with careful, wide-legged stances, hands always seeking a hold. Nausea was a constant companion initially, a humiliation they endured in private, retching over the leeward rail. They learned to eat little, drink less, and move slowly.
Then came the squall. It hit near dusk, a wall of black cloud swallowing the horizon with terrifying speed. The wind screamed, ripping at sails before the crew could fully reef them. Rain lashed horizontally, stinging like needles. The deck plunged and bucked like a maddened beast. Varga's voice, amplified by a speaking trumpet, was ripped away by the gale.
"All hands! Reef topsails! Salt, Smoke, to the mainmast! Move!"
Chaos. Slippery deck. Blinding rain. The terrifying height of the mast swaying violently. Ash fought down panic, focusing on the rope in his hands, the boot of the sailor above him. He climbed, the wind trying to pluck him off the ratlines. Beside him, Preston moved like a small, determined spider, her face set in a mask of pure concentration, Perry's fearlessness merging with her own desperate will. They hauled, pulled, secured, muscles burning, lungs screaming, cold seawater sluicing down their necks. Ash slipped, his boot skidding on a wet rope. For a heart-stopping second, he dangled, the churning black water far below. A hand – Jax's – clamped onto his wrist like iron, hauling him back onto the spar. No words, just a grunt and a shove back towards the task.
They stumbled below hours later, soaked to the bone, shivering uncontrollably, muscles trembling with exhaustion. Borin shoved mugs of lukewarm, heavily sweetened tea into their hands. "Didn't drown," he observed sourly. "Didn't fall. Useful." It was the highest praise they'd received.
In the relative sanctuary of their cubbyhole, wrapped in thin, damp blankets, the storm still raging outside, Preston finally spoke, her voice raw. "Jax pulled you back."
Ash nodded, sipping the vile, sweet tea. It was warmth, at least. "He did."
"Lars was below," Preston added, her eyes sharp in the dim light of a swaying lantern. "Said his boot was busted. Finn looked nervous."
The message was clear. Jax, the bosun, saw value. Lars saw opportunity in their potential demise. The ship was a microcosm, its loyalties and dangers as shifting as the sea.
Weeks passed. The coastline changed from the familiar ochre cliffs of Loyns to greener, forested shores, then to starker, rockier headlands. The air grew warmer, damper. Ash's hands grew calloused ropes, his sea legs steadied. He found a grim satisfaction in the galley, transforming Borin's grudging tolerance into a wary collaboration. He traded extra biscuit crumbs for information from the sailors – tales of Port Talon's spice markets, the cutthroat competition among traders, the Nayiri preference for barter over coin. He learned to make a thin fish chowder that didn't taste entirely of despair, earning muttered thanks from the crew.
Preston became indispensable to Borin and an invisible ear to the ship's pulse. She learned to predict Varga's moods by the set of her jaw, knew which sailors gambled away their shares, and which, like Jax, were taciturn but reliable. She practiced knots obsessively in their cubbyhole, her fingers flying with silent determination. She also watched Ash, noting the lingering hollowness, the way he sometimes stared at his hands as if willing the lost spark to return.
One night, during a calm watch under a sky dusted with unfamiliar southern stars, Preston broke their comfortable silence. "Port Talon soon. Then what, Salt? We jump ship, vanish into the market?"
Ash leaned on the rail, watching the bioluminescent trail stream from the Cormorant's hull. "Vanish, yes. But we need more than vanishing. We need coin. Real coin. Nayir won't welcome paupers." He'd heard the tales. Spices, silks, pearls – the islands traded in luxury. Entry required capital.
"How?" Preston asked, the pragmatism of Perry overlaying her own worry. "Scrape decks in Port Talon? Sell Perry's charming smile?"
A ghost of a smile touched Ash's lips. "Maybe. Or maybe…" He looked towards the galley hatch. "Maybe we sell something else. Borin's gruel keeps men alive. Barely. But Port Talon's full of sailors sick of ship's biscuit and boiled leather." He met Preston's gaze. "We know how to make food taste like more than punishment."
Preston's eyes widened, then gleamed with understanding. "A stall. Hot food. Real food. Near the docks." She chewed her lip, thinking. "We'd need supplies. A spot. Permission, maybe..."
"Varga won't care, once we're off her ship," Ash said. "And the crew… they'd be our first customers. Proof it works." It was a gamble. Using the meager skills honed under Mr. Blair and Borin, turning survival into commerce. It felt audacious, a tiny spark of initiative in the long wait.
The vast ocean stretched around them, the ship a fragile shell on its surface. Refuge was still islands away, across another sea. But in the rhythm of the watches, the heat of the galley stove, the shared understanding in a glance across a storm-lashed deck, they were doing more than waiting. They were learning the ship, the crew, the sea. They were earning their passage not just with labor, but with observation, adaptation, and the slow, hard-won currency of trust – in each other, and in their ability to carve a sliver of opportunity from the salt and the toil. The journey to Port Talon wasn't just distance; it was the forging of tools for the next, even more uncertain, leg of their flight. Salt and Smoke weren't just surviving the voyage; they were preparing to sell survival itself.