Ace lifted his hand.
He did not widen.
The window in the rock stood thin and vertical. Beyond it the silhouette of a ship held its breath, low and tidy, lines aboard, lantern doused. The posture of someone who could speak and preferred not to.
"Knock," Gray said. "Small."
Andrew's rope sighed and then behaved. Pelly set the ash dish on a coil like a verdict. "Deck remains a deck," he told the future.
Alder's hum stayed steady. Abel's eyes did quiet arithmetic. Damon touched a brace with the same hand he used to forgive bolts. Teuton shifted weight and gravity remembered who worked for whom.
Ace watched the water's face in the window. He waited for the blink—that shy dip between little waves where surface stops performing and tells the truth. He set a pin there, so small the day would forget it—then a second a knuckle away so the first wouldn't be lonely. The ripples radiated in a pattern that meant nothing to air and something to anyone who had learned to count.
"Say hello," Gray added. He flicked a coinvertical into the window. Ace didn't look. He listened. At the blink on the coin's climb, he tapped it with a clean dot. The coin ticked off invisible edges twice on the way down, two neat notes.
Charles smiled without moving anything important. "Door heard," he said. "Twice."
"Translation," Pelly said, on reflex.
"Polite curiosity," Charles said.
A dull shutter behind the silent ship moved by a finger's width and stopped. Light that had not been present tried to exist and failed—someone tested a lantern and then chose discretion. A short mooring pin somewhere to starboard gave a groan and settled—weight conceded an inch. The water in the window breathed easier.
"Path," Damon said softly, surprised at what people sometimes gave for free.
[LOGBOOK][KNOCK #1: TWO PINS ON WATER + COIN TICK. REPLY: SHUTTER BREATH, PIN EASED. PATH AGREED.]
They eased forward. The silent ship did nothing obvious. The rock did the talking: a net-basket somewhere below stirred and drifted into their imagined lane. It was the sort of basket designed to become a story around a keel. At the same moment a bell wire set to tense under the skin straightened out of laziness.
"Choose one," Gray said.
Ace chose the bell; sound brings teeth faster than rope. He found the blink in the line—slack becoming sing—and kissed the lacquer, not to cut, to soften. The wire kept its silence as if proud to be overlooked.
Alder stole the inch the mooring pin had given. Damon leaned into a brace and made affection tactical. Teuton stood where gravity did what it was told. The net-basket brushed the current and missed history by a yard.
"Acceptable," Gray said.
Pelly walked the square of deck like a man collecting fines. "Unscorched," he announced. "Continue."
The silent ship spoke again—three pings, metal on metal, tiny and disciplined. A hinge code: one-two—one. No threat; an instruction.
"Translation," Pelly asked, quicker now because boredom loves safety.
"Window," Charles said. "Half-high. One breath."
"Where," Gray asked, already pleased.
Abel's chin tipped a degree left. "Port of the window. Low."
They slid and there it was: a low grate in a slot with tracks that wore their history in polished streaks. The chain wasn't visible; a spring lived behind the wall, one that believed in work. The grate wanted to lift and fall, both at once, which is how machines say: make a choice.
"Knock," Gray said again. "Small."
Ace lined the needle with the track where tooth meets road. He waited for the blink—that hitch between up and down—and made a dot near the pivot so tiny pride couldn't find it. Then a second a finger's width away, so the first wouldn't be lonely.
The grate lifted half-high and decided to think about the rest. The spring kept its opinion but didn't call a meeting.
"One breath," Charles reminded.
"Alder," Gray said.
"Aye," Alder said, and made wood learn timing.
They slid through the half-moon opening with the sort of calm men fake in sermons and earn in alleys. The edge of the grate hovered an inch above Pelly's patience and failed to insult it.
[LOGBOOK][KNOCK #2 REPLY: HALF-HIGH GRATE. TRACK + PIVOT PRICKED. WINDOW TAKEN.]
Andrew let out half a sound and cut it in half again. "Permission to admire," he asked.
"You may admire later with mop in hand," Pelly said.
"That is not admiration," Andrew said. "That is labor."
"It is maturity," Pelly said.
The lane bent after the grate, a dogleg that wanted to be petty. The silent ship kept to its shadow. Ace's fingers began to tremble late, polite as ever. He turned his hands palm-down in the shadow of the rail so the shake had something to lean against.
"Cost," Gray said without looking. "Not failure."
The water ahead flattened in that predicting way it has before someone does a rude thing. A basket—not the same—lifted from below with bored malevolence. At the same heartbeat a lantern shutter to starboard slid half-shut, shrinking what light existed into a thinner insult.
"Choose one," Gray said.
Ace left the light; light is vanity. He set the needle at the basket's collar, where rope meets ring and pretends never to argue. He kissed it small on the blink between rise and float. The basket lost interest in ambition and went back to the quiet job of disappointing fish.
"Acceptable," Gray said. He flicked his eyes at the shutter and then away. "Ignore the vanity."
Pelly nodded like a miser counting a coin he had not yet been given. "Continue."
The silent ship put a second ping into the room: one—two—two. Gray made a little music with his teeth—answering with a soft, human click. "We heard you," it meant. "We will not be a mess."
"Translation," Pelly said.
"They like that we aren't thieves," Charles said.
"We are thieves," Andrew whispered.
"We are tidy," Pelly corrected.
They came on a slot in the wall that did not look like work until you understood its nature. A bar lived in it with a latch set to drop inward if the wall were offended. The water at its mouth blinked.
"Offer," Gray said, pleased at the day. "Make the bar feel complimented."
Ace didn't touch the bar. He touched the seat the bar would want, a quarter inch in, once and small, so that ready chose lazy when the time came. The bar stayed a rumor.
[LOGBOOK][BASKET COLLAR KISSED. LATCH SEAT PRAISED INTO LAZINESS. VANITY IGNORED.]
The window widened in the way a miracle widens when it admits it is math. The silent ship moved one yard aft without showing the work, leaving room for them to respect themselves.
Alder breathed with the wheel. Damon's line made a sound that meant forgiven. Teuton glanced up into the dark, ready to argue with whatever thought it was a ceiling.
Abel found something with his eyes and did not point at it. "Deep starboard," he said. "Another shape. Low. Still."
"Translation," Pelly prompted, already unhappy.
"A second hull," Abel said. "Deeper in. Gun bed low."
"Harpoon," Damon decided, hearing the geometry.
Gray's smile lost kindness and kept delight. "Offer or leave," he said to Ace, not loud.
The silent ship spoke first—one ping, then silence. No more courtesy. No more instructions. The room started to listen to itself, which is what danger does at the beginning.
Andrew's rope twitched the way a bird twitches at seeds. He made his hands fold behind him and held.
"Don't widen," Pelly told the universe. "Deck remains a deck."
"Offer," Charles said softly, not as a suggestion. As a reading.
Ace lifted the wire.
He did not widen.
He looked where the second hull's harpoon bed would want to be forgotten: the hinge at the tilt that sets aim low. He listened for the blink where weight meets will and will pretends to be metal. He moved nothing yet, and the room waited with him.
"Now or leave," Gray said. "Choose one."
Ace chose.
He set the needle small.
He—
[LOGBOOK][KNOCKS TRADED. PATHS OPENED. SECOND HULL WITH HARPOON. NEXT: OFFER OR LEAVE.]