“Blast it all!” Runa roared, already shoving through the stunned crowd. “Down to the lower decks, all of you! We have a breach!” Cold mist and raw terror jammed every throat. The gurgling intensified, joined now by a chorus of panicked squeals and squawks from below. Livestock, sensing the rising water, thrashed against their pen walls. Old Man Hemrick, still pale from his previous encounter with the quilt, wailed, “We’re sinking! We’re sinking for good!” “Not on my watch, you aren’t!” Runa snatched a coil of heavy hemp rope from a hook near the galley and tossed it to Tobas. “Murl, lash down anything that isn’t bolted, or it’ll be floating out to sea before you can stutter an apology!” Tobas fumbled the rope, catching it on the third try. His face, already pinched with worry, crumpled further. “R-Runa, I can… I can help with the leak! I know a bit about caulking from my father’s old fishing skiff.” “You’ll help by not letting my prize sow drown,” Runa snapped, already halfway down the ladder to the lower level. The ladder rungs were slick with water. A cold, wet gust of air billowed up, carrying the metallic scent of damp earth and frightened animals. Enna, surprisingly, was right on Runa’s heels. She moved with a decisive grace, her usual mocking smirk replaced by a tight line of resolve. “What do we need, Runa? Tar? Boards? My family always kept a stock of river-cured timber for repairing the eel traps.” “That’s the spirit, Vost!” Runa didn’t look back, but a sliver of grudging approval warmed her voice. “Tar, yes. Thickest you can find. And any spare lumber that isn't holding up the ceiling. We'll need a mallet, too. And spikes. Long ones.” The lower deck was a maelstrom of fear and freezing water. The main leak was a gaping maw near the central mast, spewing a steady torrent into the pig pens. The sow, a mottled pink-and-grey mountain of flesh, was shoulder-deep in the frigid water, bellowing her indignation. Her piglets, tiny and terrified, scrambled onto her back, squealing like rusty hinges. Chickens, their feathers plastered to their bodies, squawked from improvised perches on feed troughs and the highest rungs of their coop. A few particularly desperate hens had taken flight, flapping frantically into the rafters, only to crash back down into the rising tide. The air was thick with the stench of wet animal and desperate fear. “Grab the sow's tether!” Runa commanded, wading into the frigid depths without a second’s hesitation. The water reached her waist, instantly numbing her legs. Her teeth clicked together like dry dice while she studied the splintered hull timber around the geyser. Enna, with a grunt, plunged in after her. She grabbed the thick rope tied to the collar, pulling the struggling animal towards the drier, elevated section of the deck where the sheep pens were. “Easy, girl, easy. We’ll get you out of this slop.” [“Brave souls, battling the inevitable,”] a sweet, chiming voice echoed through the barn, seemingly from nowhere and everywhere at once. It was the Deluge Benefactor, its words like sugared poison. [“Such strenuous effort for so little reward. Why endure such needless suffering, Runa Fendrel? I offer a Gift of Comfort: a self-sealing, impermeable resin. One hour of peaceful slumber for your tired crew, and this inconvenient aperture shall be no more.”] Runa slapped the water, sending a cold spray over her face. “Never! Keep your grave-sleep, you manipulative current-dweller! We’ll patch this with grit and splinters, not your insidious lullabies!” “She means it,” Enna called out, her voice tight with cold, as she wrestled Grizelda into a temporary pen. “Don’t bother. Just send the wood!” Above, Tobas had managed to retrieve a stack of river-cured oak boards from a corner of the upper deck, along with a heavy iron mallet and a pouch of long, square-cut nails. He carefully lowered them down to Enna, his hands shaking slightly. “Be careful, you two! That water looks… dreadfully cold!” “It’s invigorating, Murl, don’t you fret!” Runa shouted back, lips curling in a raw grin. She seized the first heavy slab of oak and wrestled it toward the gushing breach. The force of the water nearly ripped it from her grasp. “Enna, help me brace this! We need to get it flush!” Enna plunged back into the deepest part of the water, her movements surprisingly strong and purposeful. Together, they heaved against the oak slab, fighting the rush. The water swirled around them, tugging at their clothes, trying to dislodge their footing. The roar of the rupture drowned out the bawling cattle, punctuated only by dull thuds as the board scraped the hull framing. “Now!” Runa yelled, her voice hoarse, as the plank finally settled against the fractured seam. “Drive it home!” Enna, without a word, swung the iron head and drove each square spike home with flat, ringing blows. *Clang! Clang! Clang!* Each strike resonated through the water, a defiant declaration against the rising flood. Runa pinned the board in place, shoulders burning under the strain as she tracked Enna's steady strikes. A strange sort of warmth began to spread through her chest, entirely unrelated to the freezing water. They worked in a synchronized rhythm, a dance of raw, desperate labor. Runa braced fresh boards; Enna drove the spikes. They slathered thick, foul-smelling river tar into every crevice, sealing the edges. The tar, black and viscous, clung to their skin and hair, but they barely noticed. Their focus was absolute, their communication a series of grunts, nods, and shared glances. When the main torrent was reduced to a mere trickle, and then to a slow drip, they stood back, shivering violently, their bodies caked in tar and grime. The water level had begun to recede, exposing the slop and debris on the floor. The sow grunted in muddy relief as her hooves found high flooring. The chickens cautiously descended from the rafters, shaking their bedraggled feathers. The barn, though still a mess, felt stable once more. “Well,” Runa managed, her voice a rough croak, her lips blue. “Looks like… looks like we showed that current-dweller a thing or two.” She pointed a tar-caked hand toward their crude patch of timber and black resin, held fast by stubborn spite. Enna, equally soaked and shivering, grinned, a flash of white in her tar-stained face. “We certainly did, Captain. Never thought I’d be mucking about with pigs and planks, but… it’s a better sort of work than listening to that sweet, sickly voice.” She held out a hand, black with tar, and Runa, after a moment’s hesitation, took it. Their clasp was firm, a silent acknowledgment of a new, unexpected alliance. As they climbed back to the main deck, teeth clattering like dry beans in a jar, the huddled survivors averted their eyes. Tobas rushed forward with a coarse blanket, his face a mask of concern. “Runa, Enna! You’re both freezing! Here, take this!” “Thanks, Murl,” Runa mumbled, snatching the blanket and wrapping it tightly around her shoulders. She glanced around the deck, taking stock of the remaining crew. The fear had receded, replaced by a weary relief. Her gaze fell on Old Man Hemrick, huddled by the far wall, clutching something small and glowing softly in his trembling hands. It emitted a faint, inviting warmth, and a barely perceptible, ethereal hum. The heat drained right out of Runa's chest. It was the same soft, inviting glow she’d seen emanating from the quilt. Someone, despite her warnings, had accepted a Gift.

An Unlikely Deputy