Authors: Scott Lynch
“I’ll be damned,” said Jean. “I think they’re taking us into the Sword Marina.”
THE VAST stone walls of the artificial bay were gated with wood. As the boat approached,
shouts rang out from the battlements above, and the clanking of heavy chains echoed
off stone and water. A crack appeared in the middle of the gate, and then the two
doors slowly swung inward, sweeping a small wave before them. As the boat passed through
the gate, Locke tried to estimate the size of everything he was seeing; the opening
itself had to be seventy or eighty feet wide, and the timbers of the doors looked
to be as thick as an average man’s torso.
Merrain called instructions to the rowers and they brought the boat in carefully,
coasting gently up to a small wooden dock where a single man waited to receive them.
The rowers had placed the boat at an angle, so that the end of the dock barely scraped
the hull of the boat between the rowers and the passenger gallery.
“Your stop, gentlemen,” called Merrain. “No time to tie up, I’m afraid. Be nimble
or get wet.”
“You’re the soul of kindness, madam,” said Locke. “I’ve shed any lingering regret
about failing to leave a tip for you.” He moved out of the gallery and to the gunwale
on his right hand. There the stranger waited with one arm held out to assist him.
Locke sprang up to the dock easily enough with the man’s help, and the two of them
in turn yanked Jean to safety.
Merrain’s rowers backed water immediately; Locke watched as the gig made sternway,
aligned itself with the gate, and then sped back out of the little bay at high speed.
Chains rattled once again, and water surged as the gates drew closed. Locke glanced
up and saw that teams of men were turning huge capstans, one on either side of the
bay doors.
“Welcome,” said the man who’d helped them out of the boat. “Welcome
to the most foolish damn venture I ever heard of, much less got pressed into. Can’t
imagine whose wife you must’ve fucked to get assigned to this here suicide mission,
sirs.”
The man could have been anywhere between fifty and sixty; he had a chest like a tree
stump and a belly that hung over his belt as though he were trying to smuggle a sack
of grain beneath his tunic. Yet his arms and neck were almost scrawny in their wiriness,
seamed with jutting veins and the scars of hard living. He had a round face, a wooly
white beard, and a greasy streak of white hair that fell straight off the back of
his head like a waterfall. His dark eyes were nestled in pockets of wrinkles under
permanent furrows.
“That might’ve been a pleasant diversion,” said Jean, “if we’d known we were going
to end up here anyway. Who might you be?”
“Name’s Caldris,” said the old man. “Ship’s master without a ship. You two must be
Masters de Ferra and Kosta.”
“Must be,” said Locke.
“Let me show you around,” said Caldris. “Ain’t much to see now, but you’ll be seeing
a lot of it.”
He led the way up a set of rickety stairs at the rear of the dock, which opened onto
a stone plaza that rose four or five feet above the water. The entire artificial bay,
Locke saw, was a square roughly one hundred yards on a side. Walls enclosed it on
three sides, and at the rear rose the steep glass hillside of the island. There were
a number of structures built on platforms sticking out from that hillside; storage
sheds, armories, and the like, he presumed.
The gleaming expanse of water beside the plaza, now sealed off from the harbor once
again by the wooden gates, was large enough to float several ships of war, and Locke
was surprised to see that there was only one craft tied up. A one-masted dinghy, barely
fourteen feet long, rocked gently at the plaza’s side.
“Quite a bay for such a small boat,” he said.
“Eh? Well, the ignorant need room in which to risk their lives without bothering anybody
else for a while,” said Caldris. “This here’s our own private pissing-pond. Never
you mind the soldiers on the walls; they’ll ignore us. Unless we drown. Then they’ll
probably laugh.”
“Just what is it,” said Locke, “that you think we’re doing here, Caldris?”
“I’ve got a month or so in which to turn two ignorant straight-legged fumble-thumb
landlubbers into something resembling phony sea-officers. All gods as my witness,
sirs, I suspect this is all gonna end in screaming and drowning.”
“I might have taken offense at that, if I didn’t know that every word you just called
us was true,” said Locke. “We
told
Stragos we didn’t know the first damn thing about sailing.”
“The Protector seems mighty set on having you out to sea regardless.”
“How long have you been in his navy?” asked Jean.
“Been at sea forty-five years, maybe. In the Verrari navy even before there was archons;
been in the Thousand-Day War, the old wars against Jerem, the war against the Ghostwinds
Armada … Seen a lot of shit, gentlemen. Thought I had it sewn up—been master on archons’
vessels for twenty years. Good pay. Even got a house coming, or so I thought. Before
this shit. No offense.”
“None taken,” said Locke. “This some sort of punishment detail?”
“Oh, it’s punishment, Kosta. It’s punishment all right. Just weren’t no crime done
to earn it. Archon sort of volunteered me. Fuck me, but that’s what all my loyalty
bought. That and a taste of the archon’s wine, so I can’t just quit or run away on
you. Poisoned wine. The waiting sort of poison. I take you to sea, outlive all this
nonsense, I get the antidote. Maybe my house, if I’m lucky.”
“The archon gave you poisoned wine?” said Locke.
“Didn’t know it was poisoned, obviously. What was I supposed to do,” Caldris spat,
“not fuckin’ drink it?”
“Of course not,” said Locke. “We’re passengers in the same boat, friend. Except it
was cider with us. We had a hell of a thirst.”
“Oh, really?” Caldris gaped. “Ha! Fuck me raw! Here I thought I was the biggest damn
fool on the Sea of Brass. Here I thought I was the damnedest halfwit of a blind, useless … old … ah …”
He seemed to notice the glare Locke and Jean were giving him in unison, and he coughed
loudly.
“Which is to say, sirs, that misery does love company, and I can see that we’re all
going to be real enthusiastic about this here do-or-die mission.”
“Right. So, ah, tell us,” said Jean. “Exactly how are we going to get on with this?”
“Well, first I reckon we talk; second I reckon we sail. I got just a few things to
say before we tempt the gods, so open your ears. First, it takes five years or so
to make a landsman into a halfway decent sailor. Ten to fifteen to make a halfway
decent sea-officer. So fuckin’ attend this: I ain’t making no halfway decent sea-officers
of you. I’m making shams. I’m making it so you’re not embarrassed to talk rope and
canvas around real sailors, and that’s about it. Maybe, just maybe, that’s what I
can do to you in a month.
So you can pretend to give orders while taking ’em from me. Taking ’em
good
.”
“Fair enough,” said Locke. “The more you handle, the more comfortable we are, honest.”
“I just don’t want you to decide you’re heroes who’ve learned the full business, so’s
you start changing sails and trim and courses without my leave. Do that and we’re
all gonna die, fast as a one-copper fuck in a one-whore cathouse. I hope that’s clear.”
“Not to get ahead of ourselves,” said Jean, “but where the hell is this ship on which
we would never, ever dare do anything like that?”
“It’s around,” said Caldris. “Getting a bit of finishing in another bay, just to help
it hold together. For the time being, that there’s the only vessel you’re fit to board.”
He pointed at the dinghy. “That’s what I’ll learn you on.”
“What does that little thing have to do with a real ship?”
“That little thing is what
I
learned on, Kosta. That little thing is where any real sea-officer starts. That’s
how you cop to the basics: hull, wind, and water. Know ’em on a boat and you can think
it out on a ship. So, off with your coats and vests and fancy shit. Leave anything
you mind getting wet, as I’m making no promises. Boots as well. You’ll do this barefoot.”
Once Locke and Jean had stripped down to their tunics and breeches, Caldris led them
over to a large covered basket that sat on the stones near the docked dinghy. He undid
the cover, reached in, and removed a live kitten.
“Hello, you monstrous little necessity.”
“Mrrrrwwwwww,” said the monstrous little necessity.
“Kosta.” Caldris shoved the squirming kitten into Locke’s arms. “Look after her for
a few minutes.”
“Um … why do you keep a kitten in that basket?” The kitten, dissatisfied with Locke’s
arms, decided to wrap her paws around his neck and experiment on it with her claws.
“When you go to sea, there’s two necessities, for luck. First, you’re courting an
awful fate if you take a ship to sea without at least one woman officer. It’s the
law of the Lord of the Grasping Waters. His mandate. He’s got a fixation for the daughters
of the land; he’ll smash any ship that puts to sea without at least one aboard. Plus,
it’s plain common sense. They’re good officers. Decent plain sailors, but finer officers
than you or I. Just the way the gods made ’em.
“Second, it’s powerful bad luck to put out without cats on board. Not
only as they kill the rats, but as they’re the proudest creatures anywhere, wet or
dry. Iono admires the little fuckers. Got a ship with women and cats aboard, you’ll
have the finest luck you can hope for. Now, our little boat’s so small I reckon we’re
fine without no woman. Fishers and harbor boats go out all the time, no worries. But
with the pair of you aboard, I’ll be damned if I’m not bringing a cat. A little one
suits a little vessel.”
“So … we have to tend this kitten while we’re out there risking our lives?”
“I’ll throw you overboard before I’ll lose her, Kosta.” Caldris chuckled. “You think
I’m lying, you just test me. But keep your breeches on; she’ll be in the covered basket.”
Speaking of the basket seemed to recall it to his mind. He reached into it again and
drew out a small loaf of bread and a silver knife. Locke saw that the loaf had many
small marks upon it, about the size of the muzzle of the little creature trying to
slip out of his arms. Caldris didn’t seem to care. “Master de Ferra, hold out your
right hand and don’t whine.”
Jean extended his right hand toward Caldris. Without hesitation, the sailing master
slashed the knife across Jean’s palm. The big man said nothing, and Caldris grunted
as though pleasantly surprised. He turned Jean’s palm upside down and smeared the
bread with the blood trickling from the cut.
“Now you, Master Kosta. Keep that kitten still. Vile luck to cut her by accident.
Plus she’s armed, fore and aft.”
A moment later, Caldris had made a shallow, stinging cut across Locke’s right palm
and was pressing the loaf of bread up against it as though to stanch the wound. When
he seemed to decide that Locke had bled sufficiently, he smiled and moved to the edge
of the stone plaza, overlooking the water.
“I know you both been passengers on ships,” he said, “but passengers don’t signify.
Passengers ain’t
involved
. Now you’re gonna be involved, proper, so I got to make things right for us first.”
He cleared his throat, knelt at the edge of the water, and put up his arms. In one
hand he held the loaf of bread; in the other, the silver knife. “Iono! Iono Stormbringer!
Lord of the Grasping Waters! Your servant Caldris bal Comar calls. Long you been pleased
to show your servant mercy, and your servant kneels to show his devotion. Surely you
know a mighty fuckin’ mess waits over the horizon for him.”
He tossed the bloody knife into the bay and said, “This is the blood of landsmen.
All blood is water. All blood is yours. This is a knife of silver,
metal of the sky, sky that touches water. Your servant gives you blood and silver
to show his devotion.”
He took the loaf of bread in both hands, tore it in half, and threw both halves into
the water. “This is the bread of landsmen, that landsmen need to live! At sea, all
life is yours. At sea, yours is the only mercy. Give your servant strong winds and
open waters, Lord. Show him mercy in his passage. Show him the might of your will
within the waves, and send him safe home again. Hail, Iono! Lord of the Grasping Waters!”
Caldris rose from his knees, groaning, and wiped a few smears of blood on his tunic.
“Right. If that can’t help, we never had a fuckin’ chance.”
“Beg pardon,” said Jean, “but it seems to me you could have possibly mentioned us
along with yourself.…”
“Don’t think nothing of it, de Ferra. I prosper, you prosper. I cop it, you’re screwed.
Praying for my health works to your full advantage. Now, put the cat in the basket,
Kosta, and let’s do some business.”
A few minutes later, Caldris had Locke and Jean seated beside one another at the rear
of the dinghy, which was still lashed firmly to several iron rings set into the stone
of the plaza. The covered basket was sitting on the tiny deck of the dinghy at Locke’s
feet, occasionally emitting bumping and scratching noises.
“Right,” said Caldris. “Far as the basics go, a boat is just a little ship and a ship
is just a bigger boat. Hull goes in the water, mast points toward the sky.”
“Of course,” said Locke, as Jean nodded vigorously.
“The nose of your boat is called the bow, the ass is called the stern. Ain’t no right
and left at sea. Right is
starboard
, left is
larboard
. Say right or left and you’re liable to get whipped. And remember, when you’re directing
someone else, it’s the ship’s starboard and larboard you’re talking about, not your
own.”
“Look, little as we know, Caldris, I daresay we know that much,” said Locke.
“Well, far be it from me to correct the young master,” said Caldris, “but as this
venture is somewhat in the way of completely fuckin’ mad, and since all our lives
are looking mighty cheap, I’m gonna start by presuming that you don’t know water from
weasel piss. Is that suitable by you, gentlemen?”