The hold had grown colder.

  Ainmire noticed it first in the bilge water. What had been a slow trickle of seepage now moved sluggish, thick as honey. When he pressed his palm to the damn planks, they came away coated in frost that reformed before he could wipe it clean.

  (Bob)

  The deep approves of the beauty.

  “Yeah? Well, the deep can send a nice fruit basket as thanks.” Ainmire pushed himself upright, joints moving smoother than yesterday. Almost natural now. Almost.

  Above, the ship settled into its midday rhythm. Seventeen pairs of feet. Lanson’s strides on the quarterdeck. Greer’s heavy stomping as she bullied sailors into shape. Quick, lighter pattering of someone still avoiding this part of the ship entirely.

  The eighteenth pair he had heard in two days. Old Finn’s spot near the galley remained empty. The crew had given him a burial at dawn, Lanson reading words over a canvas-wrapped body while Ainmire watched through a spacing in the wood. No one invited him to attend. They refused to look his way at all.

  (Bob)

  Humans fear what they do not understand. They’ll never understand you.

  “I was always worth fearing, Bob. Enough that it got me killed.” He found his tricorn, placed it carefully on his head. The hat felt more natural each time. Less like wearing a memory and more like wearing skin.

  It was time to go above.

  (Bob)

  The light waits, Ainmire the Meat-Thing. It hates you.

  “Always unhelpful, Bob. Thanks for that.”

  He climbed.

  The hatch opened onto the main deck near the forecastle. Late afternoon sun slanted across the planks, and Ainmire felt it immediately. It wasn’t pain exactly. But it was wrong. Like standing too close to an open fire. His flesh felt a need to crawl, to retreat from the warmth.

  He stepped fully into the light anyway, just to see.

  (Bob)

  Foolish. The meat-thing will learn.

  Ainmire’s vision swam. The world became too bright, too focused, every shadow cut away with a razor. The crew moving about their tasks seemed to glow, their life pressing against him like hands. He could feel each heartbeat. Each pulse of blood. The terror as they noticed him.

  Greer saw him first. The boatswain’s hand went to her belt knife before she caught herself, forcing her arm to her side. “Captain’s gonna want words if you’re up here.”

  Human

  Name: Greer

  Occupation: Boatswain

  Disposition: Untrusting

  “Eh, we’ve had a lot of those. Now I’m gonna take a walk.” Ainmire spread his arms, taking in the ship. “Real beauty you have here. What do you call her?”

  Greer clenched her jaw. “The Promise. And she is a good ship.”

  Savvy check...

  Savvy success

  A slight hesitation before ‘good’ tells you more than she intended. She loves this vessel. Has bled for it. Would kill and die for it. A good thing to remember.

  Ainmire nodded slowly, taking in The Promise with new eyes. A brig, he realized. Not the largest he’d seen, but well-maintained. Clean lines. Fresh tar on the rigging. The kind of ship that survived by being fast enough to run and common enough to ignore.

  His feet carried him forward without thought. Past Greer, who tensed by didn’t move to stop him. Past a cluster of sailors coiling rope who scattered like fish before a shark. Toward the starboard rail, where the sea stretched endless and grey.

  He looked down.

  The water along the hull moved strangely. Slower than it should. Thicker. Where The Promise cut through waves, the wake should have been white foam and spray. Instead, it churned dark and sluggish.

  (Bob)

  The sea is reluctant to part.

  Beneath the surface, something glinted. Ice. Fine crystals formed along the hull, melting almost instantly as the ship moved forward, then forming again.

  (Bob)

  Cold of winter gives it sweetness. Winter follows you.

  “Nothing is following me, Bob.”

  (Bob)

  For now.

  A throat cleared behind him. Ainmire turned.

  The surgeon stood at a careful distance, spectacles catching the light. A small man, fifties, with horrible posture. The kind you get from decades being bent over wounds and illness. His hands were clean and he held them clasped before him like a supplicant.

  “Captain Lanson thought you might appreciate company.” The surgeon’s voice was softer than expected. Gentle. “I’m Mason. Ship’s surgeon.”

  Human

  Name: Mason

  Occupation: Surgeon

  Disposition: Curiously comfortable.

  “Yep, I know. I remember you.”

  “Of course. Stupid of me.” Mason smiled. It seemed genuine. “May I ask something, sir? Professional curiosity.”

  Ainmire considered. There was no spike of fear. Just a genuine interest. “Feel like you’re gonna ask anyway. So, sure, why not?”

  Mason stepped closer. “You possess no heartbeat. I was the one who examined you when they brought you aboard. And after the shooting. But you can move. Speak. And you think.” He pushed his spectacles against his nose. “How?”

  (Bob)

  Good questions. Bad answers, all.

  Protector Instinct

  He is curious, not hostile. He could be useful. But he is fragile. Fragile things break under the cold.

  Ainmire pushed the thought away. “How should I know? I’m just making this up as I go. Bob thinks it knows everything.”

  “Bob?”

  “A voice in my head. As annoying as it is unhelpful.”

  Manson’s expression shifted—concern, or the professional assessment of insanity. He recovered quickly. “I see. And this Bob… explains things?”

  (Bob)

  The human now thinks you mad. Amusing.

  “Sometimes. Usually after the fact.” Ainmire turned back to the water, watching the ice form and dissolve. “Likes to go on and on about the cold and the deep.”

  Mason was quiet. When he spoke, the clinical curiosity had left the tone “Finn’s grandmother was from the northern islands. They say those people know things. Dabble in crafts not meant for man to understand.”

  “And Finn?”

  “He never spoke of it. But he always watched the water. Even when there was nothing to see. Certain it was looking back at him.” Mason stroked his chin in thought. “Superstition, of course. But when you touched him, I thought—for a moment—a miracle had occurred. But you didn’t bring Finn back, did you?”

  Ainmire remembered the old man’s eyes. The ice creeping through his veins. The way he knelt.

  “Nah,” he said with a shrug. “Not really.”

  (Bob)

  Truth. Good. The human will remember. Will tell other humans. Will spread the word that the meat-thing is honest.

  The cold crept further. Ainmire looked down and saw that his grip on the rail had frozen the wood solid, crust of white spreading from his fingertips. He released it, but the ice refused to let go.

  “What will you do, good sir?” Mason watched him. “When we reach Levelle?”

  Three weeks until port. Three weeks in this wooden world with its seventeen glowing hearts and the captain who watched too carefully and the surgeon who asked too many questions.

  (Bob)

  A question with weight. Too heavy for you yet. What will you do, Ainmire the Meat-Thing?

  “No clue,” he answered with a grin. “I’ve got some time to figure it out.”

  A shout from the quarterdeck. Landson’s voice, calling for Mason. The surgeon hesitated, clearly wanting to ask more, then nodded and buried away.

  Ainmire stayed at the rail, watching the ice form and dissolve, form and dissolve. The sun hurt less now. Or maybe he was just getting used to it.

  (Bob)

  The meat-thing learns. Adapts.

  “Yep. But know what doesn’t adapt? A wooden ship. And this cold you love so much is gonna do a number on it.”