Is it not hardship that proves the greatest teacher?

Would you not consider them spoiled,

With their empty stomachs and tattered clothes?

While our children sleep on down pillows and drink Southern wine,

Remember: for the perjury of afterlife,

Only those who’ve lived with nothing die prepared.

~~Ramblings of Ser Queenskin

Surviving Dock's End demanded a constable’s intuition. Like all orphans, Callam had quickly learned the basics: a timid mark always proved twice as vigilant; a late-night prowler was only as dangerous as his disarming smile; and a charitable cook could rarely be trusted—there was no guarantee they hadn’t spiked the free meal with drugger’s resin.

So, after ten minutes of conversation, when Callam’s instincts screamed at him that something was amiss, he paid attention. With wide eyes, he searched the sloop for signs of betrayal, yet none of the Sootskins had made a move. Merra, for her part, had done nothing to threaten him since hearing the bulk of his story. If anything, she had become more pensive the more she listened.

The rest of her crew seemed equally absorbed in his tale. Not a coup, then. A glance to his left and right confirmed they weren’t being tailed, with only a few nautical lanterns visible in the distance. Looking up, no wings disturbed the moonlit sky. That only left—

“I’m inclined to believe you,” Merra spoke, interrupting Callam’s thoughts. “That doesn’t make us even, though. You owe a favor—”

“Quiet.” Releasing his hostage, Callam knelt down onto the boat’s floor. His pulse thundered in his ears. He lifted his fist, signaling for silence—thankfully, he got it. The crew reacted almost immediately, each joining him at the sloop’s perimeter; whatever their differences, all Sootskins memorized the twelve hand signs used to avoid guards and competing gangs. Only Merra stayed standing, positioning herself in front of the starboard door. Her scripted grimoire blazed red, and a flare whizzed into the sky a moment later.

Apparently, she was thinking the same thing as him. Oceanstriders from below.

Rarely did the kraken-like beasts come so close to port in the summer, but when they did, it was always on quiet nights like this one, where the only sounds were the slapping of waves against the hull. Callam had heard sailors theorize that the Oceanstriders’ songs traveled farther in fine weather, allowing for more-coordinated attacks.

“Boys, to oar,” Merra whispered after several long, tense seconds. “Can’t be stuck at sea mid beastwave.” Nodding, Callam returned his attention to the water, his bookbag and shiv clutched tightly in his hands. Now and then, he spotted patches of still ocean amidst the churning waves.

Merra’s right. Long as we move carefully, we’ll be okay, he reminded himself.

All signs pointed to the beasts preferring the ruckus of large fishing vessels over the relative tranquility of smaller boats. A stray tentacle might peek aboard, but the nest itself would swim on by, intent on harassing the shores.

He knew all this. Why, then, did he feel an ascetic’s need to pray?

Around Callam, most of the crew had already crept back to their stations. Moments later, paddles cut into water, and he released a held breath as the sloop began its trip back to the port. With any luck, they’d—

Volleys of flares shot through the air, each punctuated by the tolling of a bell. “S-SWARM OF OCEANSTRIDERS, EAST BA—” someone in the distance shouted, their words dissolving into a terrified scream mid-sentence.

A second later, four visible ship lights became three.

“Onwards!” Merra commanded, her voice tinged with fear. Callam knew her crew was already doing everything they could do, their heads ducked down to avoid any loose tentacles that might come aboard. For his part, he found his feet and stumbled to Merra’s side as the boat picked up speed. Scriptors were sure to have heard the warning bell and would be coming port-side soon. This crew would simply have to survive long enough for that help to arrive.

If I’d only learned a few spells. In his mind, he repeated the verses he’d learned earlier, hopeful for some insight. There was nothing worse than feeling useless in a fight.

“Any offensive magic in that book, Seeker?” Merra whispered, her arm up against the boat’s rail to stabilize herself. A stupid question, yet exactly the type needed to draw him from his daze.

“Why cast spells…” Callam replied with a grim smile, hefting his bag. “when I can whack them with this?”

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“I’ve a couple forms of attack-magics in my arsenal, but both require time to prepare. My grimoire’s got nothing to speed us up either.”

Nodding, Callam gripped the otherside of the gunwale, his entire focus on staying on his feet. He’d have to buy Merra time, somehow. Waves began to climb on all sides, the formerly still pockets of water now cresting above the tide. Any moment the…

“By the Poet!” screamed a Sootskin to Callam’s left as a surge caught the rear end of the sloop and pitched her down into a swell. As one, the crew was thrown forward—the rowers had it best, able to use the oarlocks for leverage.

“Hold on!” Merra said, then began to cast, her words lost to the wind.

Callam did as he was told, his body pigeonholed into one of the boat’s nooks. Cold spray tumbled in, threatening to wash him out, but he held steady and stole a peek over his shoulder.

His stomach dropped. They weren’t near the swarm; they were part of it. Thousands of massive air bubbles rose from the ocean, popping and spraying like water boiling in a pot. Red-and-yellow tendrils—more than he could possibly count—breached the surface, their oily tips darting this way and that in search of sustenance.

“Merra!” he cried out. “Forget the spell. We have to distract them!” There was no other way they would reach the port alive.

“And how do you propose we accomplish that?” she demanded, her temper flaring. “The other sloops are too distant to serve as bait!”

Bait? Callam’s mouth soured. He made to respond, only to choke back his retort when another wave struck the prow. Spitting out a mouthful of briny water, he wiped his face clear.

Merra’s allegiance lay solely with her gang, that much was obvious. Yet her words had kindled a desperate idea in his mind.

“Blow the roof off the boat, then,” he bellowed.

“You’d have me sink us…” Recognition flashed in her eyes. Glancing around, she said, “I’ll need more time to prepare a spell of that magnitude.”

Callam didn’t say anything; the rest would be up to him and the crew.

Tentacles gripped the undercarriage a second later, their suckers emitting a chittering song that sounded of clanking chains and sails whipping at sea. The whole boat convulsed under the pressure, yet the spellworked wood rebuffed the first attack.

The Sootskins did not fare as well. With a scream for help, the boy who’d previously held Callam at knifepoint was nearly swept from the boat, a rogue tendril having caught his foot.

“Unbound, daggers out!” Callam shouted, sliding forward and slashing down. Shiv punctured skin and the tendril released, only for another to take its place. A quick stab later, it too retreated into the ocean.

“T-thanks,” the boy muttered. This time the stutter was real.

His brothers did not all prove so lucky.

“Help m—!” one of them started to shout, only for his cry to be immediately cut off.

Spinning, Callam steeled his heart. With a sickening feeling, he watched as the young boy was dragged under—he’d never get to the Sootskin in time. The entirety of the ship’s small deck was under siege, tendrils swarming in from everywhere. Their only hope now lay in the torch-lit coast ahead and in their crazy plan.

“ ‘Prosper in His light,’ ” he whispered, knowing he couldn’t possibly save them all.

With a boom, one of the dark bubbles behind them burst, shooting the sloop forward with such force that they were freed from many of the tendrils. Freezing water flooded the ship’s bulwark, some of the exposed wood having finally given in.

We’ve no one to bail, Callam realized in horror. Then Merra shouted his name, so he turned urgently to face her.

Fifteen loose, writhing tendrils surrounded her at the hatchway, each a remnant of the Sootskin’s knifework. Yet where the tentacles should have stayed dormant without a connection to their hive, they moved and wriggled still, drawn like flies to her flame.

A dash later, and he skewered the first tendril that clung to her arms. It screamed in protest, yellow liquid oozing from its body as the dagger dug deep. He had no doubt that Merra could handle these weakened beasts, but not without canceling her cast—the fire in her hands glowed brightly, and he guessed she’d be ready in under a minute. The things seemed intent on delaying the Cinderthief; they stretched toward her, the sheaths at their tips unfolding to reveal sharp, deadly beaks.

Withdrawing the knife, Callam lunged for the next tendril creeping up Merra’s leg. His shiv had just cleared the distance when the boat bucked, causing him to slip. Falling hard to his knees, he skidded down the sloop’s length—the knife flew overboard. Only the thin leather strap of his bookbag kept his grimoire from following it.

No!

Pushing himself back up, he looked to Merra and saw pain mar her moonlit features. Several of the beaks jabbed at her flame, drawing blood as they clipped her hands and skin.

Worse, her expression told him the whole story. When it came to it, he knew she’d pick self-preservation over everything.

Even if it meant dooming her crew.

I’ve got to do something.

Phrases came to his head, and he mouthed them all. “Vocis ventis, maren calmaque stat.” No winds rose to meet him. “Luxis veni, umbrae vanesce.” Shadows lightened around him—for a moment, he thought he’d cast a spell. Then nothing.

Finally, his mind tore to that first spell he’d memorized the night before.

“Infer Atrea Intus!” he shouted—at once his lips went numb and a dozen tendrils stopped their attacks, as if drawn by his incantation.