by Scott Lynch
“Able hands take the oars. Don’t be shy if you’re less than able for the time being; I know some of you have been down there too damn long. Just sit down in the middle of the launch and take it easy. You can recover yourselves on the voyage out. We’ve plenty to eat.”
That lent them some cheer. Once at sea, Locke knew, the state of their rations might easily approach that of the prison slop they were leaving behind, but for a fair few days they’d have a supply of fresh meat and vegetables to look forward to.
In good order the former prisoners clambered aboard the launch; soon the gunwales were lined with those claiming to be able-bodied, and oars were being slipped into their locks. Jabril took the bow, waving up at Locke and Caldris when all was in readiness.
“Right,” said Locke. “The Messenger is anchored south of the Sword Marina on the seaward side, wanting nothing save her crew. One guard stands watch for the night, and I’ll deal with him. Just follow us and go aboard once I’ve done that; the nets are lowered over the side and the defenses are stowed.”
Locke took the bow of the small boat and struck what he hoped was an appropriately regal posture. Jean and Caldris took the oars, and the last two prisoners sat at the stern, one of them holding Caldris’ lantern.
“Say farewell to Windward Rock, boys,” said Locke. “And bid fuck-you to the archon of Tal Verrar. We’re bound for sea.”
10
A SHADOW within shadows watched the two boats depart.
Merrain moved out of her position beside the tower and gave a small wave as the low gray shapes diminished into the south. She loosed the black silk scarf that had covered her lower face and pushed back the hood of her black jacket; she had lain in the shadows beside the tower for nearly two hours, waiting patiently for Kosta and de Ferra to finish their business. Her own boat was stashed beneath a rocky overhang on the east side of the island, little more than a cockleshell of treated leather over a wood frame. Even in moonlight, it was all but invisible on the water.
She padded quietly into the entrance hall of the prison, finding the two guards much where she expected, carelessly strewn about in the grip of witfrost sleep. True to the archon’s wishes, Kosta and de Ferra had prevented anyone from harming them.
“Alas for that,” she whispered, kneeling over the lieutenant and running a gloved finger across his cheeks. “You’re a handsome one.”
She sighed, slipped a knife from its sheath within her jacket, and cut the man’s throat with one quick slash. Moving back to avoid the growing pool of blood, she wiped the blade on the guard’s breeches and contemplated the woman lying across the entrance hall.
The two atop the tower could live; it wouldn’t be plausible for anyone to have climbed the stairs and gone for them. But she could do the one on the dock, the two here, and the one who was supposed to be downstairs.
That would be enough, she reckoned—it wasn’t that she desired Kosta and de Ferra to fail. But if they did return successful in their mission, what was to stop Stragos from assigning them another task? His poison made tools of them indefinitely. And if they could return victorious, well … men like that were better off dead if they couldn’t be put to use on behalf of the interests she served.
Resolved, she set about finishing the job. The thought that for once it would be entirely painless was a comfort in her work.
11
“CAPTAIN RAVELLE!”
The soldier was one of those handpicked by the archon to be in on some part of the deception. He feigned surprise as Locke appeared on the Red Messenger’s deck, followed by Jean, Caldris, and the two ex-prisoners. The launch full of men was just butting up against the ship’s starboard side.
“I didn’t expect you back this evening, sir.… Sir, what’s going on?”
“I have reached a decision,” said Locke, approaching the soldier. “This ship is too fine a thing for the archon to have. So I am relieving him of its care and taking it to sea.”
“Now hold on … hold on, sir, that’s not funny.”
“Depends on where you’re standing,” said Locke. He stepped up and delivered a feigned punch to the soldier’s stomach. “Depends on if you’re standing.” By arrangement, the man did a very credible impression of having received a devastating blow, and fell backward to the deck, writhing. Locke grinned. Let his new crew whisper of that amongst themselves.
The crew in question had just started to come up the boarding nets on the starboard side. Locke relieved the soldier of his sword, buckler, and knives, then joined Jean and Caldris at the rail to help the men up.
“What’s to be done with the launch, Captain?” Jabril said as he came over the side.
“It’s too damn big to carry with us on this little bitch,” said Locke. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the “subdued” guard. “We’ll set him adrift in it. Jerome!”
“Aye, sir,” said Jean.
“Get everyone up and muster all hands at the waist. Master Caldris! You know the vessel best for now; give us light.”
Caldris fetched alchemical lamps from a locker near the wheel, and with Locke’s help he hung them about the deck until they had more than enough soft golden light to work by. Jean produced his little whistle and blew three short blasts. In moments, he had the crew herded into the middle of the ship’s waist, before the mainmast. Before them all, Locke stood, stripped off his Verrari officer’s coat, and pitched it over the side. They applauded.
“Now, we must have haste without carelessness,” he said. “Those of you that do not believe yourselves fit for work, hands up! No shame, lads.”
Locke counted nine hands. Most of the men who raised them were visibly aged or far too slender for good health, and Locke nodded. “We hold no grudge for your honesty. You’ll take up your share of work once you’re fit again. For now, find a spot on the main deck below, or beneath the forecastle. There’s mats and canvas in the main hold. You may sleep or watch the fun as you see fit. Now, can anyone among you claim to be any sort of cook?”
One of the men standing behind Jabril raised a hand.
“Good. When the anchor’s up, get below and have a look at the stores. We’ve a brick firebox at the forecastle, plus an alchemical stone and a cauldron. We’ll want a hell of a meal once we’re out past the glass reefs, so show some initiative. And tap a cask of ale.”
The men began cheering at that, and Jean blew his whistle to quiet them down.
“Come, now!” Locke pointed to the darkness of the Elderglass island looming behind them. “The Sword Marina’s just the other side of that island, and we’re not away yet. Jerome! Capstan bars and stand by to haul up anchor. Jabril! Fetch rope from Caldris and help me with this fellow.”
Together, Locke and Jabril hoisted the “incapacitated” soldier to his feet. Locke tied a loose but very convincing knot around his hands with a scrap of rope provided by Caldris; once they were gone, the man could work himself free in minutes.
“Don’t kill me, Captain, please,” the soldier muttered.
“I would never,” said Locke. “I need you to carry a message to the archon on my behalf. Tell him that he may kiss Orrin Ravelle’s ass, that my commission is herewith resigned, and that the only flag his pretty ship will fly from now on is red.”
Locke and Jabril hoisted the man over the side of the entry port and dropped him the nine feet into the bottom of the launch. He yelped in (no doubt genuine) pain and rolled over, but seemed otherwise okay.
“Use those exact words,” Locke cried, and Jabril laughed. “Now! Master Caldris, we shall make for sea!”
“Very good, Captain Ravelle.” Caldris collared the four men nearest to him and began leading them below. Under his guidance, they would keep the anchor cable moving smoothly toward its tier on the orlop.
“Jerome,” said Locke, “hands to the capstan to raise anchor!”
Locke and Jabril joined all the remaining able-bodied members of the crew at the capstan, where the last of the heavy wooden bars were being slid into
their apertures. Jean blew on his whistle, and the men crammed together shoulder-to-shoulder on the bars. “Raise anchor! Step-and-on! Step-and-on! Push it hard; she’ll be up ere long!” Jean chanted at the top of his lungs, giving them a cadence to stamp and shove by. The men strained at the capstan, many of them weaker than they would have liked or admitted, but the mechanism began to turn and the smell of wet cable filled the air.
“Heave-and-up! Heave-and-up! Drop the anchor and we’ll all be fucked!”
Soon enough they managed to heave the anchor up out of the water, and Jean sent a party forward to the starboard bow to secure it. Most of the men stepped away from the capstan groaning and stretching, and Locke smiled. Even his old injuries still felt good after the exercise.
“Now,” he shouted, “who among you sailed this ship when she was the Fortunate Venture? Step aside.”
Fourteen men, including Jabril, separated themselves from the others.
“And who among you were fair topmen?”
That got him seven raised hands; good enough for the time being.
“Any of you not familiar with this ship nonetheless comfortable up above?”
Four more men stepped forward, and Locke nodded. “Good lads. You know where you’ll be, then.” He grabbed one of the non-topmen by the shoulder and steered him toward the bow. “For’ard watch. Let me know if anything untoward pops up in front of us.” He grabbed another man and pointed to the mainmast. “Get a glass from Caldris; you’ll be masthead watch for now. Don’t look at me like that; you won’t be fucking with the rigging. Just sit still and stay awake.
“Master Caldris,” he bellowed, noting that the sailing master was back on deck, “southeast by east through the reef passage called Underglass!”
“Aye, sir, Underglass. I know the very one.” Caldris, of course, had plotted their course through the glass reefs in advance and carefully instructed Locke in the orders to give until they were out of sight of Tal Verrar. “Southeast by east.”
Jean gestured at the eleven men who’d volunteered for duty up on the heights of the yardarms, where the furled sails waited, hanging in the moonlight like the thin cocoons of vast insects. “Hands aloft to loose topsails and t’gallants! On the word, mind you!”
“Master Caldris,” shouted Locke, unable to disguise his mirth, “now we shall see if you know your business!”
The Red Messenger moved south under topsails and topgallants, making fair use of the stiff breeze blowing west off the mainland. Her bow sliced smoothly through the calm dark waters, and the deck beneath their feet heeled only the tiniest bit to starboard. It was a good start, thought Locke—a good start to a mad venture. When he had settled most of his crew in temporary positions, he stole a few minutes at the taffrail, watching the reflections of two moons in the gentle ripple of their wake.
“You’re enjoying the hell out of yourself, Captain Ravelle.” Jean stepped up to the taffrail beside him. The two thieves shook hands and grinned at one another.
“I suppose I am,” Locke whispered. “I suppose this is the most lunatic thing we’ve ever done, and so we’re entitled to bloody well enjoy ourselves.”
“Crew seems to have bought the act for now.”
“Well, they’re still fresh from the vault. Tired, underfed, excited. We’ll see how sharp they are when they’ve had a few days of food and exercise. Gods, at least I didn’t call anything by the wrong name.”
“Hard to believe we’re actually doing this.”
“I know. Barely seems real yet. Captain Ravelle. First Mate Valora. Hell, you’ve got it easy. I’ve got to get used to people calling me ‘Orrin.’ You get to stay a ‘Jerome.’ ”
“I saw little sense in making things harder for myself. I’ve got you to do that for me.”
“Careful, now. I can order you whipped at the rail.”
“Ha! A navy captain, maybe. A pirate first mate doesn’t have to stand for that.” Jean sighed. “You think we’ll ever see land again?”
“I damn well mean to,” said Locke. “We’ve got pirates to piss off, a happy return to arrange, Stragos to humble, antidotes to find, and Requin to rob blind. Two months at sea and I may even begin to have the faintest notion how.”
They stared for a while at Tal Verrar sliding away behind them, at the aura of the Golden Steps and the torch-glow of the Sinspire slowly vanishing behind the darker mass of the city’s southwestern crescent. Then they were passing through the navigational channel in the glass reefs, away to the Sea of Brass, away to danger and piracy. Away to find war and bring it back for the archon’s convenience.
12
“SAIL AHOY! Sail two points off the larboard bow!”
The cry filtered down from above on the third morning of their voyage south. Locke sat in his cabin, regarding his blurry reflection in the dented little mirror he’d packed in his chest. Before departure, he’d used a bit of alchemy from his disguise kit to restore his hair to its natural color, and now a fine shadow in much the same shade was appearing on his cheeks. He wasn’t yet sure if he’d shave it, but with the shout from above, his concern for his beard vanished. In a moment he was out of the cabin, up the awkward steps of the dim companionway, and into the bright light of morning on the quarterdeck.
A haze of high white clouds veiled the blue sky, like wisps of tobacco smoke that had drifted far from the pipes of their progenitors. They’d had the wind on their larboard beam since reaching open sea, and the Red Messenger was heeled over slightly to starboard. The constant swaying and creaking and deck-slanting were utterly alien to Locke, who’d been confined to a cabin by infirmity on his last—and only previous—sea voyage. He flattered himself that the trained agility of a thief went some way toward feigning sea legs, but he avoided scampering around too much, just in case. At least he appeared to be immune to seasickness this time out, and for that he thanked the Crooked Warden fervently. Many aboard had not been so lucky.
“What passes, Master Caldris?”
“Compliments of a fine morning, Captain, and the masthead watch says we got white canvas two points off the larboard bow.”
Caldris had the wheel to himself this morning, and he drew light puffs from a cheap sheaf of cut-rate tobacco that stank like sulfur. Locke wrinkled his nose.
Sighing inwardly and stepping with as much care as he could manage, Locke brought out his seeing glass and hurried forward, up the forecastle and to the rail on the larboard bow. Yes, there it was—hull down, a minute speck of white, barely visible above the dark blue of the distant horizon. When he returned to the quarterdeck, Jabril and several other sailors were lounging around, waiting for his verdict.
“Do we give her the eyeball, Captain?” Jabril seemed merely expectant, but the men behind him looked downright eager.
“Looking for an early taste of those equal shares, eh?” Locke feigned deep consideration, turning toward Caldris long enough to catch the sailing master’s private signal for an emphatic no. As Locke had expected—and he could give legitimate reasons without prompting.
“Can’t do it, lads. You know better than that. We’ve not yet begun to set our own ship to rights; little sense in taking a fight to someone else’s. A quarter of us are still unfit for work, let alone battle. We’ve got fresh food, a clean ship, and all the time in the world. Better chances will come. Hold course, Master Caldris.”
“Hold course, aye.”
Jabril accepted this; Locke was discovering that the man had a solid core of sense and a fair knowledge of nearly every aspect of shipboard life, which made him Locke’s superior in that wise. He was a fine mate, another bit of good fortune to be grateful for. The men behind Jabril, now … Locke instinctively knew they needed some occupying task to help mitigate their disappointment.
“Streva,” he said to the youngest, “heave the log aft. Mal, you mind the minute-glass. Report to Master Caldris. Jabril, you know how to use a recurved bow?”
“Aye, Captain. Shortbow, recurved, longbow. Decent aim with any.”
“I’ve got ten of them in a locker down in the aft hold. Should be easy to find. Couple hundred arrows, too. Rig up some archery butts with canvas and straw. Mount them at the bow so nobody gets an unpleasant surprise in the ass. Start sharpening up the lads in groups, every day when the weather allows. Time comes to finally pay a visit to another ship, I’ll want good archers in the tops.”
“Fine idea, Captain.”
That, at least, seemed to restore excitement to the sailors who were still milling near the quarterdeck. Most of them followed Jabril down a hatchway to the main deck. Their interest in the matter gave Locke a further thought.
“Master Valora!”
Jean was with Mirlon, their cook, scrutinizing something at the little brick firebox abutting the forecastle. He waved in acknowledgment of Locke’s shout.
“By sunset I want to know that every man aboard knows where all the weapons lockers are. Make sure of it yourself.”
Jean nodded and returned to whatever he was doing. By Locke’s reckoning, the idea that Captain Ravelle wanted every man to be comfortable with the ship’s weapons—aside from the bows, there were hatchets, sabers, clubs, and a few polearms—would be far better for morale than the thought that he would prefer keeping them locked up or hidden.
“Well done,” said Caldris quietly.
Mal watched the last few grains in the minute-glass bolted to the mainmast run out, then turned aft and shouted, “Hold the line!”
“Seven and a half knots,” Streva hollered a moment later.
“Seven and a half,” said Caldris. “Very well. We’ve been making that more or less steady since we left Verrar. A good run.”
