by Scott Lynch
“But what if it’s just you he’s after?” A crewman Jean didn’t recognize spoke up; to give him credit, he too was standing at the front of the crowd, right where Drakasha and all of her officers could see him. “We give you to him, we save ourselves a hell of a fight. This ain’t a navy, and I got the right to be as fond of my life as—”
Jabril pushed through the crowd behind the man and punched him in the small of the back. The man fell writhing to the deck.
“We don’t know that it’s just Drakasha he wants,” Jabril shouted. “Me, I ain’t waitin’ at the rail with my breeches down for someone to kiss my cock! Most of you know as well as I—if captain fights captain it ain’t convenient to let two sides’a the story get back to Port Prodigal!”
“Hold, Jabril,” said Zamira. She hurried down the quarterdeck stairs, stepped over to the would-be pragmatist, and helped him sit up. She then stood before her assembled crew, within reach of the first row. “Basryn here is right about one thing. This isn’t a navy; so you do have the right to be fond of your own lives. I’m not your gods-damned empress. Anyone wants to try handing me over to Rodanov, I’m right here. Now’s your chance.”
When nobody stepped forward from the crowd, Drakasha heaved Basryn to his feet and looked him straight in the eyes. “Now, you can have the smallest boat,” she said, “you and anyone else who wants to help you take it. Or you can stay.”
“Ah, hell,” he said, groaning. “I’m sorry, Captain. I guess … I guess I’d rather live as a coward than die a fool.”
“Oscarl,” said Drakasha, “when we’re done here, get a party together and hoist out the small boat, on the quick. Anyone else wants off with Basryn, that’s what I’m giving you. If Rodanov wins, take your chances. If I win … understand that we’re at least fifty miles from land and you’re not coming back aboard.”
The man nodded, and that was that. Drakasha released him and he stumbled into the crowd, holding his back and ignoring the glares of those around him.
“Heed this, now,” shouted Drakasha. “The sea isn’t our friend today; that son of a bitch has more bite in the water than we do. A chase in any direction can’t buy us more than a few hours. If we’re going to settle this at kissing distance, I intend to set the terms of the courtship.
“We need to kill two for one just to have any of us left standing, so obviously we need to do better even than that. If we lock up with him so that one of our sides is against his bow, we can crowd in all around his boarding point and outnumber him at the only place it matters. That big fat crew of his won’t mean a damn thing if he has to feed it piece by piece right through our teeth.
“So, at the waist, I’ll put you in ranks, like the old Therin Throne legions. Swords and shields up front, spears and halberds behind. Don’t take your sweet time. If you can’t kill someone, knock them into the water. Just get them out of the damn fight!
“Del will choose our ten best archers and send you aloft to do the obvious. Five per mast. I wish I could send more, but we’re going to need every blade on deck we can get.
“Ravelle, Valora, I’m going to give you a few crewfolk to form our flying company. Your job is the Sovereign’s boats. They’ll try and board us from all points of the compass once we’re engaged at the waist, so you go wherever they go. One person on deck can keep five in a boat, provided you act with haste.
“Nasreen, you’ll choose a party of three and stand by at the starboard anchor for my command. Once it’s given, you’ll guard the bow against boats and free Ravelle’s party to fight elsewhere.
“Utgar, you’re with me to load crossbows. Now, there’s ale at the forecastle and I want to see the cask dry before we do this. Drink up, find your armor. If you’ve got mail or leathers you’ve been saving, pile it on. I don’t care how much you sweat; you’ll never need it again like you’ll need it today.”
Drakasha dismissed the crew by turning away from them and striding back up the quarterdeck stairs. Pandemonium erupted amidships; suddenly crewfolk were shoving past one another in all directions, some going for their armor and weapons, others headed for what might be their last drink in life.
Ezri vaulted the quarterdeck railing and shouted as she strode forward into the chaos, “Fire watches set double sand buckets! Rig the larboard razor net and hoist it high! Jerome, get your lazy ass up on the quarterdeck! Form up the flying company there!”
Jean waved and followed Drakasha up to the stern of the ship, where Utgar waited, looking nervous. Treganne was just descending the companionway stairs, muttering something about “bulk rates.”
Suddenly, a low dark shape shot up the companionway and ran for Drakasha. She looked down in response to a sudden tug on her breeches and found Paolo clutching at her, unselfconsciously.
“Mommy, the noise!”
Zamira smiled and swept him up off the deck, cradling him against the lapels of her jacket. She turned into the wind and let it push her hair out of her face. Jean could see that Paolo’s eyes were on the Dread Sovereign as it heaved and swayed beneath the cloudless sky, implacably clawing across the distance between them.
“Paolo, love, Mommy needs you to help her hide you and your sister in the rope locker on the orlop deck, all right?”
The little boy nodded, and Zamira kissed him on the forehead, burying her nose in his tangle of short dark curls with her eyes closed.
“Oh, good,” she said a moment later. “Because after that, Mommy needs to fetch her armor and her sabers. And then she needs to go board that lying motherfucker’s ship and sink it like a stone.”
5
JAFFRIM RODANOV was at the bow of his ship, the Poison Orchid steady in the center of his glass, when she suddenly whirled to larboard and pointed herself at him like an arrow. Her mainsails shivered and began to vanish as Drakasha’s crew hauled them up for battle.
“Ah,” he said. “There we go, Zamira. Doing the only sensible thing at last.”
Rodanov had dressed for a fight, as usual, in a leather coat reinforced with mail inset at the back and the lapels. The nicks and creases in the battered old thing were always a comfort to him, a reminder that people had been trying and failing to kill him for years.
On his hands he wore his favored segmented blackened-steel gauntlets. In the confusion of a close melee, they could catch blades and break skulls.
For the less personal work of actually forcing his way aboard the Orchid, he leaned on a waist-high iron-studded club. He folded his glass carefully and slipped it into a pocket, resolving to return it to the binnacle before the fight began. Not like the last time.
“Orders, Captain?”
Ydrena waited on the forecastle stairs, her own curved sword sheathed on her back, with the majority of his crew ready behind her.
“She’s for us,” boomed Rodanov. “I know this doesn’t come easy, but Drakasha’s raiding in Verrari waters. She’ll call down hell on the life we all enjoy—unless we stop her now.
“Form up to starboard, as we planned. Shields up front. Crossbows behind. Remember, one volley, then throw ’em down and pull steel. Boat crews, over the starboard side once we’re locked with the Orchid. Grapples ready at the waist and bow. Helm! You have your orders—make it perfect or pray you die in the fight.
“This day will be red! Drakasha is a foe to be reckoned with. But what are we, over all the winds and waters of the Sea of Brass?”
“Sovereign!” the crew shouted as one.
“Who are we, never boarded and never beaten?”
“Sovereign!”
“What do our enemies scream, when they speak the name of their doom at the judgment of the gods?”
“Sovereign!”
“We are!” He waved his club above his head. “And we have some surprises for Zamira Drakasha! Bring the cages forward!”
Three teams of six sailors apiece brought canvas-covered cages to the forecastle deck. These cages had wooden carrying handles set well beyond their steel-mesh sides. They were about six feet lon
g, and half as wide and high.
“Nothing to eat since yesterday, right?”
“No,” said Ydrena.
“Good.” Rodanov double-checked the sections of the starboard rail his carpenter had weakened, so one good shove would knock them over for about a ten-foot length. A blemish on his beloved Sovereign, but one that could be fixed easily enough later. “Set them down over here. And kick the cages. Let’s get them riled up.”
6
THE TWO ships crashed through the waves toward each other, and for a second time Locke Lamora found himself about to get involved rather intimately in a battle at sea.
“Steady, Mum,” called Drakasha, who stood peering out over the larboard quarterdeck rail. Locke and Jean waited nearby, armed with hatchets and sabers. Jean also had a pair of leather bracers liberated from the property of Basryn, who was nowhere to be seen since he alone had gone over the side with the small boat. My boat, Locke thought, somewhat bitterly.
For their “flying company,” Locke and Jean had Malakasti, Jabril, and Streva, as well as Gwillem. All save the latter had shields and spears; the timid-looking quartermaster wore a leather apron stuffed with heavy lead bullets for the sling he carried in his left hand.
Most of the crew waited amidships, ranked as Drakasha had ordered; those with large shields and stabbing swords up front, those with polearms in back. The mainsails were drawn up, fire buckets were set out, the larboard entry port was protected by what Delmastro had called a “skinner net,” and the Poison Orchid was rushing to the Dread Sovereign’s embrace like a long-separated lover.
Delmastro appeared out of the mess at the waist. She looked much as she had the first time Locke had ever seen her, with her leather armor on and her hair pulled back for action. Paying no heed to the weapons they were carrying at their belts, she leapt onto Jean, wrapping her arms and legs around him. He put his arms behind her back and they kissed until Locke chuckled out loud. Not the sort of thing one saw just before most battles, he imagined.
“This day is ours,” she said when they parted at last.
“Try not to kill everyone over there before I even get involved, right?” Jean grinned down at her, and she handed him something in a small silk bag.
“What’s this?”
“Lock of my hair,” she said. “Meant to give it to you days ago, but we got busy with all the raiding. You know. Piracy. Hectic life.”
“Thank you, love,” he said.
“Now, if you find yourself in trouble wherever you go, you can hold up that little bag to whoever’s bothering you, and you can say, ‘You have no idea who you’re fucking with. I’m under the protection of the lady who gave me this object of her favor.’ ”
“And that’s supposed to make them stop?”
“Shit no, that’s just to confuse them. Then you kill them while they’re standing there looking at you funny.”
They hugged again, and Drakasha cleared her throat.
“Del, if it’s not too much trouble, we’re planning to attack that ship just ahead of us, so could you—”
“Oh, yeah, the fight for our lives. I guess I could help you out for a few minutes, Captain.”
“Luck, Del.”
“Luck, Zamira.”
“Captain,” said Mumchance, “now—”
“Nasreen!” Drakasha bellowed at the top of her considerable voice. “Starboard anchor away!”
“Sound collision,” called Delmastro a moment later. “All hands brace yourselves! Up aloft! Grab a mast, grab a line!”
Someone began to ring the foremast bell frantically. The two ships were closing with astonishing speed. Locke and Jean crouched on the larboard quarterdeck stairs, clinging tight to the inner rail. Locke glanced over at Drakasha and saw that she was counting something, mouthing each number intently to herself. Curious, he tried to puzzle them out and concluded she wasn’t counting in Therin.
“Captain,” said Mumchance, calm as someone ordering coffee, “other ship—”
“Helm harda-larboard,” Drakasha shouted. Mumchance and his mate began manhandling the ship’s wheel to the left. Suddenly there was a creak and a snapping noise from the bow; the ship shuddered end to end and was jerked to starboard as though caught in the teeth of a gale. Locke felt his stomach protesting and clung to the rail with all of his strength.
“Anchor party,” yelled Drakasha, “cut the cable!”
Locke had an excellent view of the Dread Sovereign, rushing down on them, scarcely a hundred yards away. He gasped to think of that heavy ship’s bowsprit plunging like a spear into the Orchid or her massed crewfolk, but even as he watched, the three-master heeled over to larboard, making a turn of her own.
Rodanov avoided a head-on collision, and Locke had to guess that was intentional; while it might have done serious damage to the Orchid, it would have locked his ship precisely where Zamira could best resist his boarders, and possibly sunk both ships sooner or later.
What happened was spectacular enough; the sea creamed white between the two vessels, and Locke heard the protesting waves hissing like steam baking furiously from hot coals. There was no way for the Sovereign or the Orchid to shed all their forward momentum, but they slid into each other along their sides with a rolling cushion of water between them. The whole world seemed to shake as they met; timbers creaked, masts shuddered, and high overhead an Orchid was pitched from her position. She struck the Sovereign’s deck, becoming the first casualty of the battle.
“Spanker! Spanker!” Zamira cried, and everyone on the quarterdeck looked up in unison as the Orchid’s spanker sail was unfurled in the most unseamanlike fashion possible by the small crew detailed to it. Fluttering down to full extension, it was braced in place with desperate speed. Ordinarily, the fore-and-aft sail would never have been placed side-on to a wind, but in this case the stiff breeze from the east pushed against it by intention, heaving the Orchid’s stern away from contact with the Dread Sovereign. Mumchance hauled his wheel to starboard now, trying to help the process along.
There was a series of screams and snapping noises from forward; the Dread Sovereign’s bowsprit was destroying or fouling much of the forward rigging, but Drakasha’s plan seemed to be working. That bowsprit hadn’t punched a hole in the hull, and now Rodanov’s starboard bow was the only part of his ship in contact with Drakasha’s larboard side. From high above, Locke thought, the gods might have seen the two ships as drunken fencers, their bowsprits crossed but doing relatively little harm as they waved about.
Unseen things clawed the air with a snakelike hiss, and Locke realized that arrows were raining around him. The fight had well and truly begun.
7
“CLEVER SYRESTI bitch,” muttered Rodanov, and he crawled back to his feet after the collision. Drakasha was using her spanker for leverage to prevent full broadside-to-broadside contact. So be it; he had his own advantages ready to play.
“Let ’em loose!” he shouted.
A crewman standing well back from the rear of the three cages (with shield bearers flanking him) pulled the rope that released their doors. These were set just inches back from the collapsible section of the rail, which had been conveniently knocked clean away when the ships met.
A trio of adult valcona—starving, shaken up, and pissed off beyond all measure—exploded from their confinement shrieking like the vengeful undead. The first thing they laid eyes on was the group of Orchids lining up across the way. Though heavily armed and armored, Zamira’s people had no doubt expected to repel human boarders first.
The three attack birds launched themselves through the air and landed amidst shields and polearms, laying about with their beaks and their dagger-sized claws. Orchids screamed, shoved against one another, and caused utter chaos in their desperate struggle to either swing at or flee from the ferocious beasts.
Rodanov grinned fiercely. They’d been worth it—even though they’d cost too much in Prodigal, even though they’d stunk up the hold, even though they’d be dead soon enough. E
very Orchid they mutilated was one less for his people to face, and it was always impossible to put a price on making your enemy shit their breeches.
“Away boats,” he yelled. “Sovereigns! On me!”
8
THE SCREAMS from forward were more than human; Locke scrambled up the quarterdeck stairs on his hands and knees, straining to see what was going on. Brown shapes were flailing about within the packed masses of Zamira’s “legions” along the larboard side. What the hell was that? Drakasha herself dashed past, twin sabers out, running for the point of greatest chaos.
Several sailors aboard Rodanov’s ship hurled grappling hooks across the gap between the vessels. A team of Drakasha’s crewfolk, waiting for this, hurried to the larboard rail to sever the grappling lines with hatchets. One of them toppled with an arrow in his throat; the rest made short work of every line Locke could see.
A sharp, flat thwack told of an arrow landing nearby; Jean grabbed him by his tunic collar and hauled him all the way onto the quarterdeck. His “flying company” was crouched behind their small shields; Malakasti was using hers to cover Mumchance as well, who manned the wheel from a crouch. Someone screamed and fell from the rigging aboard the Sovereign; a second later Jabril cried, “Gah!” as an arrow struck splinters from the taffrail beside his head.
To Locke’s surprise, Gwillem suddenly stood up in the midst of all this and, with a placid look on his face, began to whirl a bullet overhand in the cradle of his sling. As his arm went up he released one of the sling’s cords, and a second later a bowman on the Sovereign’s quarterdeck fell backward. Jean pulled Gwillem back to the deck when the Vadran began to reach for another projectile.
“Boats,” hollered Streva. “Boats coming around her!”
Two boats, each carrying about twenty sailors, were pulling fast from behind the Dread Sovereign, curving around to approach the Orchid’s stern. Locke wished mightily for a few arrows to season their passage, but the archers above had orders to ignore the boats. They were strictly the business of that legendary hero of the plunging beer cask, Orrin Ravelle.
