“A ship’s crew is a family,” Rysn said. “They can be hostile to outsiders. I’ve felt it too. But if you really want to feel like one of them, ask Flend—he’s the man on day shift in the eel’s nest—if he has ever seen a sailorspren.”

“What will that do?” Nikli asked, frowning.

“It should make him start a little hazing ritual they often put new sailors through. They love pranking new hands with that old trick.”

“Hazing,” Nikli said. “Brightness . . . I find the idea distasteful. We shouldn’t encourage such behavior.”

“Perhaps,” Rysn said. “At first I thought it was cruel. Then I heard about the old hazing rituals. They were often humiliating, sometimes dangerous. After talking to my babsk, I started to realize something. Sometimes you accept deals you don’t want, because they’re better than the alternative.

“In a perfect world, no one would get hazed. But when I read about attempts by the military to stamp the practice out, I learned that doing so caused more mishaps. Banning hazing made the sailors afraid of being discovered, but it didn’t stop them from acting on the sly with no warning, making it more dangerous. So several far safer practices were encouraged, with the officers turning a blind eye.”

“A compromise with morality,” Nikli said.

“An imperfect solution for an imperfect world,” Rysn said. “I won’t force you, of course. But if you want to get to know the others, give my suggestion a try. Play along with their prank, and I’ll increase your wages by whatever they bilk out of you—it won’t be much. They know not to push it too far.”

Nikli retreated, seeming thoughtful, as Kstled finally returned to the quarterdeck. The captain joined him as he reported to Rysn.

“Only three crewmembers took the offer, Rebsk,” he said. “And I think we can sail without them. We carry a larger complement these days in case of attack, and those two Radiants will more than make up for three lost swords. Though Nlan, the cook, was among the ones who decided to leave.”

“That presents a problem,” Drlwan said.

“I thought so as well,” Kstled said. “But the Radiants said one of their companions is an excellent cook. So we could use her.”

“I think that will do,” Rysn said. “Captain?”

“Crew is ready, Rebsk. At your word.”

“We sail, then.”

5

Even with the best winds, a trip all the way from Thaylenah to Aimia would take weeks. Fortunately, Rysn had plenty to occupy her. There were future trade deals to begin setting up, and communications from paralyzed people around the world to answer. Rysn sincerely hoped she’d someday get to meet these friendly letter-writers in person.

The ship sheltered in coves for highstorms and Everstorms, which let Rysn go briefly ashore to send letters via spanreed. Although the Wandersail had been built to survive storms, sailing during one was still something they would do only in an emergency.

As the days passed, Rysn tried to learn about the people on her ship—though her crew was difficult to engage. She now recognized their resentment as a form of empathy for their captain, who they felt should have been given the ship. But even without that, talking to them would have been awkward. She was their rebsk, more unapproachable than an officer. When she tried to engage them in conversation, they’d respond in noncommittal ways or grow quiet.

The Lopen did not have that particular problem.

He was fascinating. She’d imagined Radiants, and seen them from afar—but hadn’t met many. The one she had the most experience with was the solemn, quiet man she’d visited to see if her legs could be healed. He’d explained to her that he couldn’t heal wounds that were more than a few months old. He’d been aloof, despite his obvious compassion for her situation.

She’d watched Windrunners soar overhead, and imagined them as mighty warriors. Battlefield legends who inspired with bold actions, heroic deeds. Larger than life. As if cut from stone, sculpted like the statues in the temples of the Heralds in Thaylen City.

“Now,” the Lopen said to her, prancing around her chair in circles on hands and knees, “you gotta have two hands to properly crawl. I came up with my own version, sure, when I had one hand. But it was more of a shuffle. See?” He moved to crawling with one hand, the other behind his back.

“That . . . looks very much like crawling to me, Radiant the Lopen,” Rysn said.

“It’s different though,” the Lopen said. “I tell you, I missed being able to do it.”

“You missed crawling?”

“Sure. I’d lay in bed and think, ‘Lopen, you used to be a majestic crawler. These louts don’t know how good they have it, being able to crawl whenever they want.’ ”

“I can’t imagine that if I were restored to the use of my legs, I would wish to do something so silly as crawl around.”

He flopped down onto the deck beside her chair, rolling over and looking up. “Yeah, maybe. But it’s nice to make people laugh at you for something you do, and not something you can’t control. You know?”

“I . . . Yes. I think I do.”

The ship surged across a wave. The seas were moderately rough today, though no storm was predicted. Wavespren danced atop the tips of whited caps across a field of shimmering blue. Rysn sat at her customary station on the quarterdeck, far aft, tucked in the corner beneath her sunshade and securely strapped in. Nikli had been true to his word, and so she now had a nightstand to her right, bolted to the deck, with a latching cabinet where she could store books and writing materials.

The captain gave the seat a look every time she passed, and Rysn could feel what she was thinking. What an impractical location. Sitting here, Rysn was exposed to the wind and occasional sprays of seawater. Why not stay in her cabin, as Drlwan had suggested?

People said things like that with a straight face, while being hit by wind and sprays of seawater themselves, never seeing the hypocrisy. Rysn wanted to be up where she could be seen, where she could watch the horizon. She wanted to listen to the sounds of the sea—the sprays, the crashes, and the calls of the sailors as they worked.

Nearby, Queen Navani’s scribe—a slender ardent named Rushu—knelt beside a box, where she tinkered with some fabrials. Though they were a few weeks into the trip, Rysn hadn’t yet received her promised demonstration of those—though she hoped it would happen today.

“So . . .” the Lopen said in Alethi, still lying on his back near her seat and staring up at the clouds, “know any good no-legged Thaylen jokes?”

“None worth sharing.”

“One-legged jokes seem easier,” the Lopen said. “What do you call a one-legged Thaylen? Lean? Nah, that’s not close enough to a real name. Hmm . . .”

“Lopen,” Rushu said as she worked, “you should not be tormenting Brightness Rysn with your prattling.”

The Lopen nodded absently. Then his eyes opened wide. “Oh! Why was the no-legged Thaylen unhappy? Because she’d been de-feeted. Ha! Hey Huio, listen.”

Rysn couldn’t help smiling as he proceeded to tell the joke in Herdazian to his cousin: a squat bald man with a wide, round face and beefy arms. She thought, from her limited knowledge of the Herdazian language, he then had to explain the pun—completely spoiling the joke. Yet the way the Lopen spoke—with such enthusiasm, such insistence on being seen and not ignored—made her feel relaxed. Even encouraged.