POV: tress
Summary
A very tired Tress climbs the last feet of the spore tunnel carrying three cloth-wrapped packages — one larger, two smaller — and emerges into the lantern light of the ship to find Laggart standing watch with his pistol levelled. The two stare at one another while his brain catches up to his eyes and his common sense comes huffing along behind; then he lowers the gun and backs away. Friendlier faces flood the rail. The crew cheers as she settles into the launch, and the tunnel collapses behind her the moment the Dougs begin to hoist her up. At the top Ann is ecstatic and bewildered: *how?* Tress manages a single thought — that if anyone is going to broker an important trade, they ought to make sure their payment cannot speak for itself, advice the narrator confesses he has found surprisingly applicable across his travels.
Tress hands Ann one of the small packages. *The dragon couldn't help me with my problem,* she says, *so I got this for you.* The woman takes it frowning; Tress is too spent to explain. She picks her way to Fort and Salay, where Dr. Ulaam is already at work with one of his salves — preparations that do not heal at once but speed the process, and leave the patient feeling much better. He is currently expounding on the merits of the various noses he could provide (the narrator confides he has always wanted to try the one that can't smell cheeses); Fort only slumps against the rail, staring forward dazed.
Tress kneels and unwraps the larger package. Inside is another writing board, like the one Crow had broken. Fort sits up at once. He looks at her, at the board, back at her — then hugs her. No words required. Ann walks up holding the pair of spectacles she has unwrapped, one end dangling from her fingers as if she were holding a dead mouse by the tail. The dragon, Tress explains, says she has something called *micropsia* — he gave a technical account she did not follow, and she still does not know how it could have caused Ann to hit someone standing behind her, but the spectacles ought to help.
The final package — really more an envelope — goes to Salay. Tress then climbs to the quarterdeck steps and lets herself sit and try to process the night. The crew gives her space. After a while Salay limps over on a crutch and lowers herself with effort beside her. *Filistrate City,* she says. *I searched Filistrate City.* The dragon, Tress tells her, says her father arrived there six months ago — right after she left. Salay would have kept hunting in the wrong direction the rest of her life. Then she reaches over and pulls Tress into a hug. It is exactly what Tress needs.
When their emotions are sufficiently lanced for the moment, Salay forces herself upright on the crutch and salutes. *About a week to the Midnight Sea, Captain,* she reports — supplies should hold, since they bought plenty at the last port. Tress tries to insist Salay should be captain instead; Salay refuses on principle. *Can't be captain. It's my job to make certain the captain is making good decisions. That's what a first mate is for.* Tress argues that the Midnight is dangerous, that even the dragon would not help, that even he fears the Sorceress. Salay only suggests they will figure out how to cross the Midnight the way they crossed the Crimson: *Do we set sail now, or wait for the morning?*
Other objections die in Tress's throat. This is what she wanted. *We sail tonight, Helmswoman,* she says. *And if I'm the captain, then I'm going to go claim Crow's bed. Don't wake me up unless Death himself has shown up, nails in his eyes. Even then, see if you can stall.*