one metal spear, and fired. The slug hit the tip of the shrieker and stuck—but otherwise, nothing happened.
She let out a breath, relieved. Shriekers were one of the deadliest and least predictable scrived weapons Tevanne had ever invented. She’d never imagined she’d ever want to tinker with one—let alone thirty-five of them.
She stuck slugs of metal to about half the shriekers. Then she said, “Gregor—give me your imprinter.”
“Why? What are you doing?”
“Giving us an advantage. Trust me.”
He did so. She took his imprinter and walked along the rest of the catapults, applying his slugs to them as well. When she was finished she stood back, surveying her work. “It’s done.”
“And…what have you done?”
“The shriekers activate their velocity strings when the spears are broken from this metal release here,” she said, pointing into the workings of the catapult.
Gregor flinched. “Please do not touch it, then…”
“But we’ve applied one half of an anchoring string to all the spears,” she said. “Like we stuck our boat to the galleon—you do one half, then the other, and the two bits get pulled together.”
“So?”
“So…” She showed him the setting on his espringal. “You point your espringal at something, and fire the second half of the anchoring string at it—and it will pull five shriekers from their catapults. Since the catapults are pointed inwards, not outwards, the shriekers should go right through the walls of this ship, and our anchoring slugs will redirect the projectiles toward whatever it is that you shot at.”
Gregor stared, amazed. “So…when I fire my imprinter at something, I will essentially be firing five shriekers at it?”
“Yeah. Fire again, get the next five. And again, the next five. You get three volleys, I get four. Seems handy if we want to sink the ship or…if we encounter anything else in here. Just…be aware that it’s going to rip through a lot of shit to get to your targe—”
She heard something echoing below them, faint but high-pitched. She stopped and peered backward into the darkness.
“Did you…” she asked.
“Yes,” said Gregor, troubled. “I did.”
They listened hard, and then they heard it again—the sound of a man screaming.
The sound tapered off. Sancia and Gregor stood without speaking, listening to the creaking, groaning, shuddering ship move around them. There was no other sound.
“So—that’s not normal, right?” she asked.
“It is not,” said Gregor.
There was a long silence.
“I…suppose we had better go investigate,” said Gregor quietly.
“What time is it?” said Sancia.
Gregor pulled out a scrived timepiece and huddled by his scrived lantern to see. “It’s not even ten o’clock yet.”
“So…they can’t have done it yet, right? They have to wait for the lost minute, for midnight.”
“I am afraid I am not the expert on this material.”
“Shitting hell,” said Sancia. She wiped sweat from her brow and lifted her espringal. Together they continued into the depths of the galleon.
* * *
—
They wound on and on through the decks of the ship, through quarters and chambers and stairwells. The air was hot and moist and dreadfully still, and the lights from their lanterns seemed painfully small, tiny bubbles of luminescence attempting to beat back the dark.
Then they heard a scream again, echoing from the innards of the giant vessel. They exchanged a look and continued on, deeper and deeper in, espringals ready.
“We’re approaching the cargo holds,” whispered Gregor.
“Which means what?”
“I’m not sure. But there should be large chambers up ahead. Perhaps where they keep the slaves.”
They came to one corridor that seemed unusually long and straight, perhaps running from bow to stern. They stopped and shone their lights down its length, but could see no end to it.
I hope no one is at the other side, thought Sancia, looking back at us.
They started down the corridor, moving as quietly as they could. Sancia flexed her scrived sight as they walked. For a long while