Vincent

"What I was taught, is that your story is true."

The words had slipped from Vincent's caution like wet soap. To someone as clever as Mercy, he might as well have shared his entire childhood. But to his surprise, Mercy had kept silent, her thoughts locked away behind an inscrutable expression. And she kept that silence in the hours that followed, leaving Vincent to muse in silence over how frayed his restraint was becoming.

Mercy only spoke again when she needed to, to mention the status of the engines or offer him something of the food she prepared. The awkward hours passed in an uneasy quiet until Vincent was tired enough to sleep, lulled only by the soft whistle of the storm.

But Vincent did manage to sleep. And when he woke up again, it was to sunlight creeping through the hole in the hull.

Vincent untied his sleeping bag, grabbed the nearby handrails, and twisted in the air until he was floating over his boots. He slid into them with practised ease, tied them up and marched across the deck to the hole in the hull.

"Storm's over?" Mercy asked from her own bed.

Vincent set his hand against the rock, and looked through the small gap between the hull and the island. When he saw the pale, bright blue of the sky, he smiled and whistled. "I was starting to miss that colour," he said. "Looks like a lot of thin mist, some specks of cloud. Good sailing weather."

"Shall we untie the anchors and get on our way?" Mercy asked as she sat up. With enviable grace she pushed herself out, cartwheeling in the air with her hands on the rails, and slid into her boots. As if what she did was as unimpressive as breathing, she snatched up her hat and added, "we can eat as we travel."

"Spoken like the person who won't be at the wheel," Vincent replied, but his head was nodding as he spoke, and his thoughts were already on the horizon. "Undo the anchors at the bow and the stern first. We'll detach the balloon after that, and let ourselves rise off this rock before we detach the keel anchor."

"What do we do when we're back in the air?" Mercy asked.

"We see what we see," Vincent replied. "We should be close to Grainglove, even if this little piece has drifted away from the rest. Depending on how thick the cloud and mist is out there, we might see it as soon as we weigh anchor."

Vincent pulled some clothes out of a nearby supply chest, and walked out of their sleeping cabin into the engine room, to leave Mercy some privacy. He found it difficult to work the buttons of his shirt with his shaking hands, and the blending of excitement and trepidation now vibrating through his legs was difficult to contain.

Excitement and trepidation, and no small amount of fear.

Vincent dressed, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt long enough that he started wondering if he couldn't use magnets instead. He strapped on his harness, attached his tool pouch to his leg, and belted on his weapons.

For a moment, his fingers traced the stylized cowl embossed in the hilt of his sword. It was the only piece of his commission, the single piece of his years in Volante's Navy, that he was allowed to take with him.

Once Vincent finished, he turned to check the engine. His eyes lingered on the gauges first, looking at the boiler pressure. Satisfied, he checked the fuel feeder next, making sure the belt was still running. It turned on with a happy whirl once he fed it some of the steam from the boiler. After a moment of guttural grumbling, it settled into its usual mechanical hum.

If the conveyer belt enclosed in steel had failed, Mercy would have to feed the boiler herself, and they might both have regretted not eating before they left.

Mercy was already gone by the time Vincent finished, and the clink of her boots catching the metal stairs told Vincent she had already gone up to the top deck. Vincent decided on a different route, and used the hole in the ship to step outside. He pulled himself down to the rocks, and carefully climbed the outside of the hull until he found the metal plates. He then walked along the side until he could clip onto the anchoring rope at the bow.

As he slid along the rope to where it was tied off, he took his first opportunity to look at these newly clear skies.

And what he saw terrified him.

White mist streamed across the sky in great, ribboning lengths hundreds of miles across. Pale grey clouds like bits of fluff, ripped apart by the wind, dotted the blue skies between the rivers of white. The streams wove around dozens of tiny islands, sisters to the one they were anchored to. Each one was more a boulder than an island, with jagged ends and sharp outcroppings like knife blades warding away the clouds.

Vincent blinked and forced his eyes to examine what they saw, despite how frightened it made him. It wasn't dozens of tiny, fractured islands he was looking at.

It was hundreds. Or more.

What he saw terrified him, because of what it meant.

Vincent closed his eyes and turned his head away. As he reached the end of the rope, he was grateful to have a task to keep his sight focused on. He untied the anchor, wrapped the end of the line around his waist, and made his way back to the ship without letting himself look up again.

He was pushing the rope back into a supply chest when Mercy climbed over the rails at the aft end of the ship. She kept looking to her right as she walked, staring up at the impossible ruin above. "Vincent, those skies, even the Shardwall is nothing like whatever these skies are," she said. Her voice trembled, shaken by what she saw. "I've never seen anything like this before."

"No one has seen these skies before," Vincent said, and something about admitting that aloud felt like he had swallowed a block of lead. Even here, where gravity was so weak he was only anchored by the magnets in his boots, the truth was heavy.

"We ought to be able to see Grainglove by now," Mercy said. Vincent nodded in agreement, wordlessly, as he bundled the rest of his anchor rope away. He reached out and took Mercy's off her hands while she stared up past the starboard rails and looked at the clouds. "And this rock we're anchored to is a piece of it."

Mercy's gaze swept across the skyline one more time, and she gasped. Vincent understood the realization she was coming to, and waited. "So are those. Those islands, by the endless blue, those are all pieces of Grainglove," she said, awe giving way to terror.

"I suspect the same," Vincent whispered in agreement.

"What could break an island like Grainglove?" Mercy asked, whirling about and taking Vincent's hand. Despite the move, she still stood a couple feet away, as if there were a rail between them. "Strip-mines have cracked islands before, but those were tiny things, like the rock we're anchored on. It would take everyone in Olencia a hundred years, using all the blast powder in every navy under the sky to split Grainglove in half. Even then, it wouldn't be thrown into pieces, the pull of the isle itself would keep it together. Vincent, what-"

"Let's get the ship in the air," Vincent said, his voice taking on the hard tenor of an officer giving orders. He hoped it would stave off a question he wasn't prepared to answer. "We'll see what we find. Hopefully, we're wrong about Grainglove, and we find it soon."

"And the Monastery ship?" Mercy asked.

"I hope so," Vincent affirmed. Though his voice sounded empty and hollow to his own ears.

Mercy nodded and began to climb the balloon. Vincent went to the controls and stoked the engine by increasing the speed of the fuel injector. The steam from the engine had been used to keep them warm for the last few days, which meant it only took a few moments for the boiler pressure to rise.

Vincent rechecked his clip, just before the anchor rope winding overtop the ballon went slack. The helium inside was still cold, and the spin of their anchoring isle had slowed a little over the last few days. The ship rose with something akin to lethargic indifference, but it did climb into the open air. Once they were clear of the rock, Vincent pushed the propellers into half-cruise to keep them from straining the last anchor rope. Vincent then looked starboard, waiting for Mercy.

She appeared only moments after he started watching, swinging through the air. Centrifugal force from the rise of the ship catapulted her with ferocious speed, but Mercy was at home in the free air as any bird. She plummeted past, with a cheeky grin and a tilt of her hat, falling below and out of sight.

Another few quiet moments later, Vincent heard the distinctive muffled clunk of boots striking the hull, and the patter of someone waking up the side. Mercy appeared at the rails a moment later, throwing herself over with enviable ease, and only stopped to pull up the rope that had anchored them from the ship's keel.

"You'd be setting a bad example back on the Hood," Vincent said, as Mercy untied the anchor ropes and began to stow them away.

"Sailors from the great isles never really learn the far skies," Mercy replied. "You all think the rock pulling at your feet is the natural state of your lives. It's hard to love sailing when you need the ground's cling."

"Not every great sailor is a Wayfarer," Vincent replied.

"But every Wayfarer is a great sailor," Mercy countered.

Vincent inclined his head, conceding the point. He turned the wheel and pushed the ship into cruising speed. The wind rushed across the deck as the ship pushed forward. Mist skimmed across the hull as they crossed into the white rivers flowing past.

"Mercy, release the boom tack, and let out some sail," Vincent said, as he teased their ship closer to one of the long streams of mist ribboning across the sky. The sails pulled as soon as Mercy let the boom poles swing out, and the ship flew through the clouds, eager to be back in the sky.

The quiet whistle of the skies marked the passing of both minute and mile. They crossed the skies from one broken island to another, and all they saw as they passed was ruin.

A thousand islands like the one they had been anchored to hung in the skies ahead. Each one made of fractured rocks, knife-like edges jutting out and carving the mists like whipping foam. The distance only revealed more of the same, or smaller bits of rock and dust beginning to collect into tiny clouds of shrapnel, sheltering near or between the larger islands.

Mercy pulled herself away from her own observations, spyglass in trembling hand, and joined Vincent at the wheel. She put her hand on his shoulder, and he turned to see tears in her eyes. Her bottom lip trembled, and Vincent reached out to take the spyglass from her just as she gave up holding it.

"This is Grainglove, isn't it," Mercy said. Despite her phrasing, Vincent knew she wasn't asking a question. "The island, all the people who lived here, the Monastery ship passing by. They're..."

"Let's keep looking. If anyone survived, we might be the only ship that will get close enough to help them for weeks," Vincent replied.

"You really imagine anyone survived this?" Mercy asked.

"Anyone on a ship might have, or if they were on a part of the island far enough away from the blast, perhaps," Vincent replied, though believing his own words required hope he didn't feel. "We saw plants survive. And I think I see a tree on one of those islands up ahead. If someone's out there, we should give them a chance."

"I'd appreciate that," Mercy said.

"And we have to find whatever is left of the Monastery ship," Vincent added. "We can't leave that as flotsam, to be picked up by salvagers or corsairs."

"Not with that box they're carrying?" Mercy asked, and she took one small step back, just out of arms reach.

"Anything on a Monastery ship could be a prize find for a salvager. But that box," Vincent began to say but caught himself. He shook his head, and chided himself for his newly loose tongue. "We need to find them," Vincent finished.

Mercy nodded, but the scowl remained. But she pointed ahead, to the isle with the lone tree. "Can you get us alongside that?" she asked.

"How close do you need to be?" Vincent asked, his thoughts already turning to how best to match the island's drift and spin.

"Close enough to climb into it, if you can," Mercy replied.

"Not a problem," Vincent said, and he turned the ship towards the lonely tree, clinging to a tiny island.

Reaching the island and matching the speed of its drift was easy. He barely had to run the propellers to draw alongside and slightly above the island. But the way the tree spun as the island whirled around was too quick, and the island too small for Vincent to orbit. Instead, he sat in position beside the rock, and let the tree slowly spin around beside the ship.

"This is about as good as you're going to get," Vincent said. "Tie-off on the rails with one of the anchoring ropes. Just don't tangle the rope in the tree, I really wasn't looking for a souvenir."

Mercy only waved her hand in response, not even looking back as she pulled herself over the rails. She held her position at the far side of the rails, waiting as the tree spun back into view again. Just as it's leafy foliage passed alongside the deck, Mercy leapt off the ship, arms and legs spread wide, facing the tree sweeping towards her. The broom-like bloom of brush caught her as it swept by, and pulled her out of sight.

Vincent kept one eye on the island, and his hands the controls to match its course. Asides from that, he could only wait until the island spun the tree back into view, and try for the few seconds Mercy passed into view to see what she was up to.

Vincent could see her climbing through the tree as she passed, one hand clinging to the branch as she was pulled along, following it like a flag attached to a pole. She had climbed near a large bowl made of twigs, and her free hand was reaching inside.

One more revolution and Mercy kicked off from the tree. Vincent dashed away from the wheel and stopped at the rails. He began to pull the rope, letting it wind lazily in the air behind him, until the line went taut and he started to pull Mercy in. She reached the ship, and climbed over the rails, while Vincent untied the rope and moved to store it away.

"What were you after?" Vincent asked.

Mercy clipped herself in and opened her coat. Inside, sheltered by a bundle of twigs stuck together with mud to form a shallow basket, was a single round object nestled inside some fluff and bits of grass, and a lot of black feathers.

"An egg," Vincent said. "What kind of bird is that?"

"It's a raven. The egg's cold, it won't ever hatch," Mercy said, with an odd expression on her face. "It's strange, I can almost see why."

"Why what?" Vincent asked.

"The Wayfarer Clans. None of them would willingly take the Raven. We have Lark and Whiskeyjack, Dove and Gull, Owl, Eagle, and Crow. Even Quail. But Raven won't be taken, there's an old legend about it being a cursed bird."

"What's the story?" Vincent asked, looking for something to pull his thoughts from the broken island around them.

"The last clan to wear raven feathers was a clan of a single woman. A clan of one. The story goes that she refused fellowship, because she heard a story that could not be told and intended to let it die with her. Instead, she travelled from isle to isle, journeying from one clan-ship to another. She healed the sick, talked peace when she could, and fed the hungry. She had been raised by cruelty, and turned unkindness on monsters. She brought medicine from the inner isles, learned from even the Monastery, and died sailing to an impossible place."

Vincent frowned, struck by a curious thought. Mercy noticed his pondering and scowled at him. "Now don't tell me you know that story to be true, as well."

"No. Just an old lesson, when I was little. The proper name of a group, like a flock of ducks or a murder of crows. The proper name for a group of ravens, it fits your story."

"What is a group of ravens called?" Mercy asked.

"An unkindness. An unkindness of ravens."