"Shut up!" someone else hisses on the other side of the door.

  "It sounds like fighting!" the woman says.

  "Probably cannibal lunatics killing each other. You want 'em to come in here?"

  I exchange a look with Quarter, who only raises his eyebrows and shrugs. I turn to Mercy.

  "Can you stay out of sight for a while?" I ask her. "You're a little alarming right now."

  "Murder?" Mercy looks down at her naked, gory body. "Murder."

  She retreats out of sight. I pull the bar with a metal rattle.

  "Fuck," the second voice says, "I you --"

  "We're not raiders," I say aloud. "I'd really appreciate it if you wouldn't scream."

  I open the door.

  The rear of the cutter is one open compartment, half-full of sacks, barrels, and other containers. It's more organized than the rest of the ship, giving the impression that the common riff-raff weren't allowed back here. A few smaller containers get pride of place toward the front, including a trunk with a heavy City-made lock on it.

  Of more immediate relevance are the people, trussed with rope and tied to wall-brackets on opposite sides of the room. On the left is a man in a blood-stained uniform that marks him as a soldier of the Outer Court, probably one of the guards from the . Quarter peeks around the doorframe and scowls immediately.

  "I know this one," he says. "He brought food t' our hold. Kicked Raz once for not getting out o' his way quick-like."

  "You --" the man says, then, "Fuck. Fuck! You're prisoners from the ship, aren't you?"

  "Maybe I should see how you like th' taste of boot-leather, you --"

  "More Dextrals?" The other prisoner, the young woman, has a liquid, lilting accent, less harsh than the raiders' but definitely related. "You joined up with the Sworn, is that it?

  I turn to look her over. She's in considerably worse shape than her fellow prisoner, one eye blackened and swollen nearly shut and her upper lip crusted over with dried blood. Her hair is a matted tangle and her clothes are torn rags barely adequate for modesty, but there's an intelligent gleam in her good eye and a defiant set to her jaw.

  "The Sworn?" I ask.

  "Fifth-sworn. The raiders. You're getting the look right, but you could use more spikes."

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  I almost object, but looking down at myself -- shirtless, bruised, liberally drenched in blood -- I find I can't argue.

  "Despite appearances, we're not," I tell her. "I take it you aren't either?"

  "Oh, nah, I'm just on break. Getting tied up and beat to shit is just my idea of a good time." She rolls her eyes. "We're fucking prisoners, obviously."

  "Didn't think raiders took prisoners," Quarter says suspiciously. "Thought everybody ended up in th' cookpot."

  "They always save one from a raid to take back to Slaughterborne," the woman says. "And I'm sort of a special case. Is this a fucking rescue or not?"

  "Uh. I'm not sure. We didn't know there were prisoners."

  "Then what the fuck are you doing here?"

  "Stealing the ship."

  "?" the guard says, in a strangled gasp that turns into a coughing fit. "You --"

  "Well, since we're

  the fucking ship," the woman says, "I guess that makes it kind of a rescue? In which case I would if you could cut me loose."

  I think for a minute, but like before it's not that hard a decision. When cannibal lunatics are on one side, you should probably be on the other, right? Enemy of my enemy and all that. I cross the room and set to work on her bonds with my knife.

  "What about this one?" Quarter says, still glaring at the guard.

  "I --" He coughs a few more times. "I'd appreciate being rescued too."

  "Aye, but can we trust you?"

  "It wasn't ," he says. "I'm sorry I kicked your friend. I was just, you know --"

  "Bein' an arsehole?" Quarter suggests.

  "I think we can agree to work together until we're not surrounded by psychopaths, right?" I say, sawing through the last of the ropes.

  "Yeah!" the guard says eagerly. "Of course. I'll help, whatever you say."

  "Great. What's your name?"

  "Owain. Owain Gaerganat." He swallows as Quarter, grumbling, starts cutting his ropes. "Thank you."

  "Don't think I won't be watchin' ye," Quarter mutters.

  "I'm Kal, and this is Quarter," I say.

  The rope finally parts and the woman yanks her hands free. There are open sores where she was bound; apparently she's been down here for some time.

  "If we're being all formal-like, I'm Theodoxia the Fourteenth," she says. "You can call me Theo. Now --"

  She tries to rise and stumbles on numb legs. I grab her arm automatically to steady her, and she shoots me a look. Then she shakes her head and scans the room.

  "What are you looking for?"

  "That," she says, pointing at a battered metal jug. She staggers over, pulling me with her, and crashes to the floor beside it. She tries to open it, but her swollen fingers can't get purchase on the screw-top. I reach over and undo it for her. "Thanks. Mind pouring so I don't spill?"

  I tip the jug up, using the top as a cup. Water glugs. But not deadwater, flat and lifeless. This water sparkles, as though under a blue light no one can see. If you peered at it in the dark, you'd be able to detect the faintest glow.

  Rockwater. Not recycled from human effluent but pulled from a deep mine, fresh and untainted. I haven't had a sip since I left the City, and my mouth is suddenly very dry.

  Theo drains the cup, tipping it all the way up to be certain to get every drop. She holds it out again and I wordlessly pour another portion, licking my lips. When that's gone, she eyes the jug for a moment, then shakes her head and screws the cap back on.

  Her wounds don't disappear immediately. Rockwater isn't miraculous, like water-of-life -- a sufficiently concentrated draught of can do anything short of bringing back the dead. But it does cut pain, suppress swelling, and make sure injuries heal fast and clean. From the way Theo gets to her feet without shaking, it's already having an effect.

  "Sorry to double-dip," she mumbles, "but I'm not in the best fucking shape right now."

  I shake the jug, which still glugs about half-full.

  "I have a friend who needs some of this," I tell her. "And then we should work on getting the hell out of here."