The air hung thick and warm five days out from Port Talon, the sea a lazy, molten blue that mirrored the hazy sky. Ash felt the shift in the Cormorant's timbers – a subtle, restless vibration beneath the usual groans. The wind, fickle for days, died completely, leaving the sails slack and listless. The crew moved with a sullen lethargy, sweat beading on brows, tempers shortening like frayed ropes. The doldrums. A sailor's purgatory.
Borin's mood curdled faster than milk left in the sun. He slammed pots, cursed the stagnant air choking his galley, and rationed water with miserly ferocity. Ash felt the cook's suspicious gaze linger on him more often, a flinty scrutiny that set his nerves on edge. The missing kavi berries. Preston's ploy with the exposed bundle hadn't fooled him for long. He knew they'd been moved, touched. He just couldn't prove who.
"Stir that slop, Salt!" Borin barked, gesturing at a vat of lentils threatening to glue itself to the pot bottom. "And keep yer fingers outta me stores. Smell thievery on the air, I do." His beady eyes darted to the shadowed corner where the bundle had lain.
Ash kept his face impassive, the wooden paddle moving with steady, rhythmic scrapes. "Just weevils and despair, Cook. Same as always." He felt Preston, scrubbing the soot-blackened stove front nearby, tense imperceptibly. Perry's grimy face remained downturned, focused on the task.
The tension thickened like the humid air. Lars, sensing weakness or simply bored, chose that afternoon to strike. Ash was hauling a heavy water cask from the hold, muscles straining against the awkward weight on the steep ladder. Lars "happened" to be coiling a thick hawser nearby. As Ash reached the top rung, Lars gave the rope a sharp, deliberate kick. It slithered across the deck, tangling around Ash's ankles.
Ash stumbled, the cask slipping from his grasp. He twisted, managing to shove it clear of crushing his legs, but it slammed onto the deck with a booming crack, precious water sloshing from a newly sprung seam. Ash hit the planks hard, the breath knocked out of him.
"Clumsy land-lubber!" Lars boomed, feigning surprise. "Look at that! Wasted half a day's ration!" He strode over, looming. "Captain won't like that. Nor the crew."
Ash pushed himself up, ribs protesting, meeting Lars's mocking gaze. The hollowness yawned, useless. Pure, cold fury tightened his jaw. He saw Preston frozen near the galley hatch, Perry's eyes wide with alarm, hand drifting towards her hidden stiletto. Jax appeared at the mainmast base, arms crossed, watching silently.
Before Ash could react, Borin erupted from the galley, drawn by the crash. He took in the split cask, the spreading puddle, Ash on the deck, and Lars's smug stance. His face purpled. "MY WATER!" he shrieked, voice cracking. He whirled on Ash, spittle flying. "Useless! Wasteful! First me berries, now me water! Think I don't know yer thieving ways? Think yer clever?"
He lunged, not at Lars, but at Ash, bony fingers clawing for his tunic. "Search him! Search the cubby! Bet he's got me kavi stashed!"
Ash caught Borin's wrists, holding the surprisingly strong old man off. "Borin, listen—" The cook's accusations were a smokescreen, but a dangerous one. A theft accusation could see them confined, beaten, even marooned.
"Let him search!" Lars crowed, enjoying the chaos. "Prove yer innocence, Salt!" Finn and a few others murmured agreement, thirst and boredom making them receptive to any drama.
"Enough." Jax's voice cut through the clamor like a knife. He hadn't moved, but his presence silenced the immediate shouting. His flinty eyes scanned the scene: the kicked rope, the broken cask, Borin's rage, Lars's smirk, Ash's silent fury, Preston's tense watchfulness. "Lars. That hawser looked poorly stowed. Fix it. Now." His tone brooked no argument. Lars's smirk vanished, replaced by sullen resentment, but he moved to obey.
Jax turned to Borin, still quivering in Ash's grip. "Cook. Your water's leaking. Secure it. Salt," his gaze locked onto Ash, "you dropped it. You clean it. Every drop saved. Use your shirt if you have to." It was punishment, but fair, and it sidestepped the theft accusation for now. "As for thievery…" Jax's gaze swept the assembled crew. "Anyone missing valuables, report to the mate. Captain's law, not galley gossip." He gave Borin a hard look. The cook deflated slightly, wrenching his wrists free from Ash with a final glare.
The confrontation dissolved into grumbling and the urgent task of salvaging water. Ash knelt, using rags to sop up the precious liquid, wringing it back into a bucket. Shame warred with fury. He'd been helpless. Again. Preston silently joined him, handing him dry rags, her Perry mask firmly in place, but her eyes burned with shared anger and a flicker of fear. Lars watched them work, a satisfied glint in his eyes.
That night, the air remained oppressive. Sleep was impossible. The cubby felt like a coffin. Ash sat against the damp timbers, sharpening his knife with fierce, repetitive strokes, the shhhk-shhhk the only sound besides the ship's groans. Preston sat opposite, meticulously re-braiding a length of salvaged rope, her fingers flying in the dim light filtering through a knothole.
"They know," Preston whispered, finally breaking the suffocating silence. Perry's voice was gone; it was pure Preston, tight with tension. "Borin knows we took the berries. Lars knows he can push. Jax… Jax sees it all, but he won't shield us forever."
Ash didn't stop sharpening. "Five days," he rasped. The knife blade gleamed in the faint light. "We need to last five days."
"And then what?" Preston's whisper was fierce. "Set up Salt's Savories with Borin breathing down our necks accusing us of theft? With Lars likely waiting to tip over our pot?" She tied off the braid with a savage yank. "We need leverage. Something Borin wants more than revenge. Something to make Lars back off."
Ash lowered the knife, staring at the worn whetstone – Mr. Blair's stone. Varga had valued it. What did Borin truly value? His domain? His grudging authority? His secrets? He thought of the kavi berries, hidden beneath a loose floorboard. Sweetness. Value. "The berries," he said slowly. "We use them."
Preston's head snapped up. "Use them? How? Borin'll just take them and still hate us!"
"Not if we offer him a share," Ash countered, the plan forming like cold seawater in his mind. "Not if we make them the key to something he wants."
"What does Borin want?" Preston scoffed. "To make the crew suffer slightly less?"
"Respect," Ash said, the word surprising even him. "From the crew. From Varga. His gruel is tolerated, not wanted. What if…" He leaned forward, the knife forgotten. "What if we help him make something good? One meal. Before Port Talon. Using the kavi. A taste of what could be. We do the work. He takes the credit… and a share of the berries."
Preston stared at him, comprehension dawning, then skepticism. "He'd never agree. He'd think it's a trick."
"He's suspicious, not stupid," Ash argued. "He knows the berries are valuable. He knows his cooking is… functional. Offer him a chance for real praise. Offer him profit after Port Talon if he lets us set up the stall, using his… 'oversight'." It was a gamble, playing on Borin's greed and wounded pride. "We frame it as his idea. Salt's Savories becomes… Borin's experiment. We're just the hands."
Preston was silent for a long moment, turning the braided rope in her hands. Outside, the ship gave a slow, mournful roll. The doldrums pressed down, heavy and silent. "It's mad," she breathed. "But… it might just be mad enough. We approach him in the morning. When he's had time to stew but before Lars stirs more trouble." She met Ash's gaze in the gloom. "If he says no…"
"Then we hide the berries well," Ash finished grimly. "And watch our backs every second until Port Talon." He picked up the knife again, but the sharpening felt different now. Not just maintenance. Preparation. The vast, whispering sea outside felt less like an indifferent expanse and more like a silent accomplice, holding its breath. The next move was Borin's. Their fragile plan, their hard-won place aboard the Cormorant, hung in the stagnant air, as precarious as a ship becalmed. Salt and Smoke were running out of sea room.