“What do sandhill cranes speak to?” Kindred asked.
“Enemy vessels.”
Kindred sucked in a breath.
“You need to get low,” Ragged Sarah said, the longsight still pressed to her eye. “Very low.”
“What?” Kindred said, staring wide-eyed at a still-far-off lone bird headed their way, one she’d never seen a likeness of before. Two sets of wings, grey and green, preceding a tail that twisted and swirled behind, caught in the sun and articulating colors Kindred had no names for, colors she—
Ragged Sarah pushed her to the platform a breath before huge explosions of sound ripped the air apart.
The birds were landing, huge talons longer than Kindred’s hand wrapping around the guardrail surrounding the crow’s nest. Shushing wings and clicking beaks suddenly existed in too little space, and Kindred could only watch, breath held captive in her chest.
Where there was only one bird—as was the case with the lone remaining gembills—it arrived in a rush of speed and, head cocked to the side, intelligent eye glaring at Ragged Sarah, offered a series of clicks or chirps or caws or warbles, all of which Sarah took down on a scrap of cloth she produced from her pocket, scribbling frantically with a chip of charcoal.
Where there were multiple birds—as was the case with the party of crows—one was sent, emissary-like, the other members of its flock holding their place in the air, no longer laughing or diving about. The entire process had an air of formality about it, as though the trip to The Errant had been an opportunity to exorcise any jittery anxiety or playful exuberance, and now it was time for business.
One by one the birds arrived, filling the guardrail, a congress of wings and beaks, the air heavy and oppressive with their intent. And in the middle stood Ragged Sarah, listening and writing, her face showing focus. And fear.
When a bird finished its recitations, it took off again, buffeting Kindred with a cyclonic rush of air, stirring up any dust left on the crow’s nest.
The last to arrive were the four-winged beauty and one of the Birds of the Dawn, which nearly brought Kindred to tears as it arrived, alighting on a patch recently vacated by a blacklark. The Bird of the Dawn puffed wide its sky-blue wings as it landed, its talons curving around the railing without a sound. It was grace made manifest, and it held itself high and proud.
The four-winged bird landed opposite, its size and weight making a silent landing impossible. It landed with a crack and a creak that promised repairs later on. Its body was bigger, more powerful than any of the other birds Kindred had seen—there or in Messit’s book—and its beak gave way to a ridge of wicked teeth when it vocalized, releasing a long, low croak, like a toad. Horns curled back and away from its head, emphasizing the slit of its pupil, a black sliver in a Sea of white.
When the birds were finished, they, too, took off, angling for the sky, disappearing like the others had apparently, for the skies were suddenly empty again, save for the quick-moving shadows of a very few messengers racing for the horizon. The last to disappear was the four-winged bird, which Kindred watched until her eyes hurt and it was only the shape of her imagination against the blue of sky.
“I’ve never seen anything like that,” Kindred said, slumped back against the guardrail—now gouged and clawed from playing host to so many talons.
“Dammit,” Ragged Sarah said, frantic, looking over the paper in her hand once more before moving quickly, grabbing for ropes, fashioning again the seat for Kindred. If the greater calling had tired her out, she didn’t show it now. “You need to get down to the hearthfire.”
Kindred heard the panic in her voice, the self-assured cockiness gone. A wave of cold ran down Kindred’s arms.
“What did the birds tell you?”
Ragged Sarah offered the rope seat and helped Kindred into it, pushing her off the edge into space and lowering her in short, jaunty drops.
“We’re being followed.”
CHAPTER TEN
Kindred dropped to the deck in a clatter of boots on wood. She had only really begun to disentangle herself from the rope around her when Ragged Sarah crashed to the deck nearby, her fall too fast.
“Shit,” Sarah muttered, wobbling a little as she picked herself up, favoring one knee but moving quickly away anyway. Kindred dropped the last of the rope around her and hurried to follow through the collections of joyous crew, all of them talking and laughing and grinning about the calling. Many of them plied her with questions and entreaties, but Kindred ignored them and caught up with Ragged Sarah on the quarterdeck, where Little Wing stood at the wheel.
We’re being followed.
Kindred looked behind the ship, into their wake and up to the horizon, but she could see nothing.
“What is it?” Little Wing asked, her face hardening as she looked from Sarah to Kindred.
“Five ships follow us at a distance, Captain, each flying Cantrev’s banner. They may not reach us before the Roughs, but they will catch us before we reach the Once-City. They burn bones with abandon and do not have to deal with the damage aboard we do.”
“Fucking Cantrev. What else?”
Kindred frowned. What else? Five Arcadian warships following them with abandon wasn’t enough?
“There’s a thistle reef stretching before us just past the beginning of the Roughs.” Ragged Sarah swept her arm in front of the ship, indicating a swath that covered half the horizon toward which The Errant sailed.
“How long to sail around it? Maybe Cantrev’s idiot soldiers will try to cut us off and run aground the thistles.”
“At least two span,” Sarah said.
“Fuck. And you’re sure the captain won’t make it past a span?”
“Two span,” Sarah said, frowning in confusion. “The captain will be out for two span. Beyond that, it gets unsafe to keep her unconscious.”
Blood roared in Kindred’s ears. Her unburned hand stiffened at her side, and her teeth snapped together with a decisive click.
Slow, like day rolling into night, Little Wing turned her head to stare at Kindred. Her eyes were pits, dead and dangerous.
“I was told we had only a single span for the captain.”
Sarah was looking back along their wake, searching perhaps for Cantrev’s pursuing vessels, oblivious to Little Wing’s stare.
“No. Two. A day fewer now, I guess. Either way, we can’t go around the reef. But there is a way through,” Ragged Sarah said, “though, from what the birds could tell me, it’s dangerous and narrow, like a mountain pass but bounded by steep banks of thistle. If any of Cantrev’s ships manage to follow, they would gain quite quickly just by simply sailing in our wake.”