Tress of the Emerald Sea

by Brandon Sanderson

The locals worshipped those twelve moons as gods, which we can all agree is far more ridiculous than whatever it is you worship.

Where was her sense of adventure? Her yearning for new lands? Her wanderlust? Well, this isn’t the part of the story where you ask questions. So kindly keep them to yourself.

Five soldiers watched the grounds—though only Snagu and Lead were on duty now—and they did their job well. After all, it had been a horribly long time since anyone in the duke’s family had died from the myriad of dangers a nobleman faced while living on the Rock. (Those included boredom, stubbed toes, and choking on cobbler.)

Lem was not a poor man. Now, you might say to me, “Hoid, this entire story has shown me the opposite. Lem’s family is always scrimping to survive.” And I would reply, “Please stop interrupting.” Lem was not poor, he simply didn’t have a lot of money.

Now, you might have noticed that the young woman in the barrel was not Tress, and you might think she was actually in one of the other kegs. She was not. Tress was not hiding in some other piece of cargo. Tress was not hiding at all. Tress was the inspector.

Tress wiped her eyes once more. “Can we maybe backtrack on this conversation? It looks like we missed the main roadway. I don’t mean to be rude, but you are a rat.” “Seems self-evident.” “But you’re talking.” “Again, self-evident.” “Yes, but…but how?” “With my mouth,” he said. “Also, reference my previous answer.”

“Hon, no man is worth getting killed over,” the rat said.

He began to rip at her clothing, and she frantically felt around for a weapon. Her fingers latched onto something metal and she swung it up, clocking the sailor on the head. He dropped like a streaker’s trousers.