by Scott Lynch
“Consequences?” asked Locke.
“Ravelle is going to betray me just as Captain Bonaire betrayed me when she took my Basilisk out of the harbor seven years ago and raised a red banner. It’s going to happen again…twice to the same archon. I will be ridiculed in some quarters, for a time. Temporary loss for long-term gain.” He winced. “Have you not considered the public reaction to what I’m arranging, Master Kosta? I certainly have.”
“Gods, Maxilan,” said Locke, toying absently with a knot on one of the lines bracing the vessel’s relatively small mainsail. “Trapped out at sea, feigning mastery in a trade for which I’m barely competent, fighting for my life with your fucking poison in my veins, I shall endeavor to keep you in my prayers for the sake of your hardship.”
“Ravelle is an ass, too,” said the archon. “I’ve had that specifically written into his back history. Now, something you should know about Tal Verrar—the Priori’s constables guard Highpoint Citadel Gaol in the Castellana. The majority of the city’s prisoners go there. But while Windward Rock is a much smaller affair, it’s mine. Manned and provisioned only by my people.”
The archon smiled. “That’s where Ravelle’s treachery will reach the point of no return. That, Master Kosta, is where you’ll get your crew.”
5
TRUE TO Stragos’ warning, there was an additional guard to be disarmed in the first cell level beneath the entrance hall, at the foot of a wide spiral staircase of black iron. The stone tower overhead was for guards and alchemical lights; Windward Rock’s true purpose was served by three ancient stone vaults that went down far beneath the sea, into the roots of the island.
The man saw them coming and took immediate alarm; no doubt Locke and Jean descending alone was a breach of procedure. Jean relieved him of his sword as he charged up the steps, kicked him in the face, and pinned him, squirming, on his stomach. Jean’s month of exercise at Caldris’ whim seemed to have left his strength more bullish than ever, and Locke almost pitied the poor fellow struggling beneath his friend. Locke reached over, gave the guard a touch of witfrost, and whistled jauntily.
That was it for the night shift—a skeleton force with no cooks or other attendants. One guard at the docks, two in the entrance hall, one on the first cell level. The two on the roof, by Stragos’ direct order, would have sipped drugged tea and fallen asleep with the pot between them. They’d be found by their morning relief with a plausible excuse for their incapacity—and another lovely layer of confusion would be thrown over the whole affair.
There were no boats kept at Windward Rock itself, so even if prisoners could conceivably escape from iron-barred cells set into the weeping walls of the old vaults, and win free through the barred entrance hall and lone reinforced door, they’d face a swim across a mile of open water (at least), watched with interest by many things in the depths eager for a meal.
Locke and Jean ignored the iron door leading to the cells of the first level, continuing down the spiraling staircase. The air was dank, smelling of salt and unwashed bodies. Past the iron door on the second level, they found themselves in a vault divided into four vast cells, long and low-ceilinged, two on each side with a fifteen-foot corridor down the middle.
Only one of these cells was actually occupied; several dozen men lay sleeping in the pale green light of barred alchemical globes set high on the walls. The air in here was positively rank, dense with the odors of unclean bedding, urine, and stale food. Faint tendrils of mist curled around the prisoners. A few wary pairs of eyes tracked Locke and Jean as they stepped up to the cell door.
Locke nodded to Jean, and the bigger man began to pound his fist against the bars of the door. The clamor was sharp, echoing intolerably from the dripping walls of the vault. Disturbed prisoners rose from their dirty pallets, swearing and hollering.
“Are you men comfortable in there?” Locke shouted to be heard above the din. Jean ceased his pounding.
“We’d be lots more comfortable with a nice sweet Verrari captain in here for us to fuck sideways,” said a prisoner near the door.
“I have no patience to speak of,” said Locke, pointing at the door he and Jean had come through. “If I walk back out that door, I won’t be coming back.”
“Piss off, then, and let us sleep,” said a scarecrow of a man in a far corner of the cell.
“And if I won’t be coming back,” said Locke, “then none of you poor bastards will ever find out why vaults one and three have prisoners in every cell…while this one is completely empty save for yourselves.”
That got their attention. Locke smiled.
“That’s better. My name is Orrin Ravelle. Until a few minutes ago, I was a captain in the navy of Tal Verrar. And the reason you’re here is because I selected you. Every last one of you. I selected you, and then I forged the orders that got you assigned to an empty cell vault.”
6
“I CHOSE forty-four prisoners, originally,” said Stragos. They stared at Windward Rock in the light of the morning sun. A boat of blue-coated soldiers was approaching it in the distance, presumably to relieve the current shift of guards. “I had the second cell vault cleared, except for them. All the orders signed ‘Ravelle’ are plausible, but upon scrutiny, the signs of forgery will become evident. I can use that later as a plausible excuse to arrest several clerks whose loyalties aren’t…straightforward enough for my taste.”
“Efficient,” said Locke.
“Yes.” Stragos continued, “These prisoners are all prime seamen, taken from ships that were impounded for various reasons. Some have been in custody for a few years. Many are actually former crewmen of your Red Messenger, lucky not to be executed along with their officers. Some of them might even have past experience at piracy.”
“Why keep prisoners at the Rock?” asked Jean. “In general, I mean?”
“Oar fodder,” answered Caldris. “Handy thing to keep on hand. War breaks out, they’ll be offered full pardons if they agree to work as galley rowers for the duration. The Rock tends to have a couple galleys’ worth, most of the time.”
“Caldris is entirely correct,” said Stragos. “Now, as I said, some of those men have been in there for several years, but none of them have ever had to endure conditions like those of the past month. I have had them deprived, of everything from clean bedding to regular meals. The guards have been cruel, disturbing their sleeping hours with loud noises and buckets of cold water. I daresay by now that there isn’t a man among them that doesn’t hate Windward Rock, hate Tal Verrar, and hate me. Personally.”
Locke nodded slowly. “And that’s why you expect them to greet Ravelle as their savior.”
7
“YOU’RE THE one responsible for shoving us into this hell, you fuckin’ Verrari ass-licker?”
One of the prisoners stepped up to the bars and clutched them; the depredations of the cell vault had yet to whittle away a build frighteningly close to that of the heroic statuary of old. Locke guessed he was a recent arrival; his muscles looked carved from witchwood. His skin and hair were black enough to shrug off the pale green light, as though in disdain.
“I’m the one responsible for moving you to this vault,” said Locke. “I didn’t lock you up in the first place. I didn’t arrange for the treatment you’ve been receiving.”
“Treatment’s a fancy fuckin’ word for it.”
“What’s your name?”
“Jabril.”
“Are you in charge?”
“Of what?” Some of the man’s anger seemed to ebb, transmuting to tired resignation. “Nobody’s in fuckin’ charge behind iron bars, Captain Ravelle. We piss where we sleep. We don’t keep bloody muster rolls or duty shifts.”
“You men are all sailors,” said Locke.
“Was sailors,” said Jabril.
“I know what you are. You wouldn’t be here otherwise. Think about this—thieves get let out. They go to West Citadel, they work at hard labor, they slave until they rupture or get pardoned. But even they get
to see the sky. Even their cells have windows. Debtors are free to go when their debts are paid. Prisoners of war go home when the war’s over. But you poor bastards…you’re penned up here against need. You’re cattle. If there’s a war, you’ll be chained to oars, and if there’s no war…well.”
“There’s always war,” said Jabril.
“Seven years since the last one,” said Locke. He stepped up to the bars just across from Jabril and looked him in the eyes. “Maybe seven years again. Maybe never. You really want to grow old in this vault, Jabril?”
“What’s the bloody alternative…Captain?”
“Some of you came from a ship,” said Locke. “Impounded recently. Your captain tried to smuggle in a nest of stiletto wasps.”
“The Fortunate Venture, aye,” said Jabril. “We was promised high heaps of gold for that job.”
“Fucking things killed eight men on the voyage,” said another prisoner. “We thought we’d inherit their shares.”
“Turns out they was lucky,” said Jabril. “They didn’t have to take no share of this gods-damned place.”
“The Fortunate Venture is riding at anchor in the Sword Marina,” said Locke. “She’s been rechristened the Red Messenger. Refurbished, resupplied, careened, and smoked. She’s been prettied up. The archon means to take her into his service.”
“Good for the bloody archon.”
“I’m to command her,” said Locke. “She’s at my disposal. I have the keys, as it were.”
“What the fuck do you want, then?”
“It’s half past midnight,” said Locke, lowering his voice to a stage whisper that echoed dramatically to the back of the cell. “Morning relief won’t arrive for more than six hours. And every guard on Windward Rock is…currently…unconscious.”
The entire cell was full of wide eyes. Men heaved themselves up from their sleeping pallets and pressed closer to the bars, forming an unruly but attentive crowd.
“I am leaving Tal Verrar tonight,” said Locke. “This is the last time I will ever wear this uniform. I am quits with the archon and everything he stands for. I mean to take the Red Messenger, and for that I need a crew.”
The mass of prisoners exploded into a riot of shoving and jabbering. Hands thrust out at Locke through the bars, and he stepped back.
“I’m a topman,” one of the prisoners yelled, “fine topman! Take me!”
“Nine years at sea,” hollered another. “Do anything!”
Jean stepped up and pounded on the cell door again, bellowing, “Quiiiieeeett!”
Locke held up the ring of keys Jean had taken from the lieutenant in the entrance hall.
“I sail south on the Sea of Brass,” he said. “I make for Port Prodigal. This is not subject to vote or negotiation. You sail with me, you sail under the red flag. You want off when we reach the Ghostwinds, you can have it. Until then, we’re on the watch for money and plunder. No room for shirkers. The word is equal shares.”
That would give them something to ponder, Locke thought. A freebooter captain more commonly took two to four shares from ten of any plunder got at sea. Just the thought of equal shares for all would quell a great many mutinous urges.
“Equal shares,” he repeated above another sudden outburst of babble. “But you make your decision here and now. Take oath to me as your captain and I will free you immediately. I have means to get you off this rock and over to the Red Messenger. We’ll have hours of darkness to clear the harbor and be well away. If you don’t want to come, fine. But no courtesies in that case. You’ll stay here when we’re gone. Maybe the morning relief will be impressed with your honesty…but I doubt it. Who among you will desist?
None of the prisoners said anything.
“Who among you will go free, and join my crew?”
Locke winced at the eruption of shouts and cheers, then allowed himself a wide, genuine grin.
“All gods as your witness!” he shouted. “Upon your lips and upon your hearts.”
“Our oath is made,” said Jabril, while those around him nodded.
“Then stand upon it, or pray to die, and be damned and found wanting on the scales of the Lady of the Long Silence.”
“So we stand,” came a chorus of shouts.
Locke passed the ring of keys over to Jean. The prisoners watched in an ecstasy of disbelief as he found the proper key, slid it into the lock, and gave it a hard turn to the right.
8
“THERE IS one problem,” said Stragos.
“Just one?” Locke rolled his eyes.
“There are only forty left of the forty-four I selected.”
“How will that suit the needs of the ship?”
“We’ve got food and water for a hundred days with sixty,” said Caldris. “And she can be handled well with half that number. Once we’ve got them sorted out, we’ll do fine for hands at the lines.”
“So you will,” said Stragos. “The missing four are women. I had them placed in a separate cell. One of them developed a gaol-fever, and soon they all had it. I had no choice but to move them to shore; they’re too weak to lift their arms, let alone join this expedition.”
“We’re for sea with not a woman aboard,” said Caldris. “Will not Merrain be coming with us, then?”
“I’m afraid,” she said sweetly, “that my talents will be required elsewhere.”
“This is mad,” cried Caldris. “We taunt the Father of Storms!”
“You can find women for your crew in Port Prodigal, perhaps even good officers.” Stragos spread his hands. “Surely you’ll be fine for the duration of a single voyage down.”
“Would that it were mine to so declare,” said Caldris, a haunted look in his eyes. “Master Kosta, this is a poor way to start. We must have cats. A basket of cats, for the Red Messenger. We need what luck we can steal. All gods as your witness, you must not fail to have cats at that ship before we put to sea.”
“Nor shall I,” said Locke.
“Then it’s settled,” said Stragos. “Heed this now, Kosta. Concerning the…depth of your deception. In case you have any misgivings. None of the men you’ll be taking from Windward Rock have ever served in my navy, so they’ve little notion of what to expect from one of my officers. And soon enough you’ll be Ravelle the pirate rather than Ravelle the naval captain, so you may tailor the impersonation as you see fit, and worry little over small details.”
“That’s good,” said Locke. “I’ve got enough of those crammed into my head just now.”
“I have one last stipulation,” Stragos continued. “The men and women who serve at Windward Rock, even those who are not party to this scheme, are among my finest and most loyal. I will provide means for you to disable them without rendering permanent harm. In no way are they to be otherwise injured, not by you nor your crew, and gods help you if you leave any dead.”
“Curious sentiments for a man who claims to be no stranger to risks.”
“I would send them into battle at any time, Kosta, and lose them willingly. But none who wear my colors honestly are to die as part of this; that much my honor compels me to grant them. You are supposed to be professionals. Consider this a test of your professionalism.”
“We’re not bloody murderers,” said Locke. “We kill for good reason, when we kill at all.”
“So much the better,” said Stragos. “That is all I have to say, then. This day is yours to do with as you see fit. Tomorrow evening, just before midnight, you’ll land on Windward Rock and start this business.”
“We need our antidote,” said Locke. Jean and Caldris nodded.
“Of course. You three will get your last vials just before you leave. After that…I shall expect your first return within two months. And a report of your progress.”
9
LOCKE AND Jean managed a ragged muster of their new crew just inside the entrance hall. Jean had to demonstrate his physical strength to several men who attempted to vent their frustrations on the sleeping guards.
“I
said you touch them at your peril,” Locke snarled for the third time. “Let them be! If we leave them dead behind us, we’ll lose all sympathy with anyone. Let them live, and Verrari will be laughing about this for months to come.
“Now,” he said, “move out quietly to the dockside. Take your ease, stretch your legs, have a good long look at the sea and sky. I’ve a boat to fetch before we can be away. For the sake of us all, keep your mouths shut.”
They mostly obeyed this admonition, breaking up into little whispering groups as they moved out of the tower. Locke noticed that some of the men hung back near the door, their hands on the stones, as though afraid to step out beneath the open sky. He couldn’t say he blamed them after months or years in the vault.
“That’s lovely,” said Jabril, who fell into step beside Locke as they approached the dock where Caldris paced with his lantern. “Fuckin’ lovely. Almost as lovely as not having to smell us all at once.”
“You’ll be crammed together again soon enough,” said Locke.
“Aye. Same but different.”
“Jabril,” said Locke, raising his voice, “in time, as we come to know one another’s strengths, we can hold proper votes for some of the officers we’ll need. For now, I’m naming you acting mate.”
“Mate of what?”
“Mate of whatever.” Locke grinned and slapped him on the back. “I’m not in the navy anymore, remember? You’ll answer to Jerome. Keep the men in order. Take the weapons from that soldier tied to the dock, just in case we need to pull a little steel this evening. I don’t expect a fight, but we should be ready.”
“Good evening, Captain Ravelle,” said Caldris. “I see you’ve fetched them out just as you planned.”
“Aye,” said Locke. “Jabril, this is Caldris, my sailing master. Caldris, Jabril is acting mate under Jerome. Listen up!” Locke raised his voice without shouting, lest it echo across the water to unseen ears. “I came with a boat for six. I have a boat for forty nearby. I need two men to help me row. Won’t be half an hour, and then we’ll be away.”
