Authors: Scott Lynch
“M-master de Ferra … de Ferra, no, please,” the man whispered. “Sweet gods. I’m with
Merrain. I’m to … look after you.”
Locke seized the man’s left hand and peeled his leather glove off. By the pale lamplight,
Jean saw a tattoo on the back of the stranger’s hand, an open eye in the center of
a rose. Locke sighed and whispered, “He’s an Eye.”
“He’s a bloody fool,” said Jean, glancing around them before setting his
hatchet down quietly. He rolled the man onto his back. “Easy, friend. I pulled the
blow to your head, but not to your stomach. Just lie there and breathe for a few minutes.”
“I’ve been hit before,” huffed the stranger, and Jean could see that tears of pain
gleamed on his cheeks. “Gods. I marvel at the thought that you need protecting at
all.”
“We clearly do,” said Locke. “I saw you in the Thousand Days, didn’t I?”
“Yes. And I saw you give up your glasses of ale to that poor woman. Oh, fuck, my stomach
is like to burst.”
“It will pass,” said Jean. “Did you see where that missing barkeep went?”
“I saw him enter the kitchen, and I never looked for him to come back. Didn’t have
any reason to at the time.”
“Shit.” Locke scowled. “Knowing Merrain, does she have soldiers nearby against need?”
“Four in an old warehouse just a block south.” The Eye gasped several times before
continuing. “I was to take you there in case of trouble.”
“This qualifies,” said Locke. “When you can move, take us to them. We need to reach
the Sword Marina in one piece. And then I’ll need you to carry a message to her. Can
you reach her tonight?”
“Within the hour,” the man said, rubbing his stomach and staring up at the starless
sky.
“Tell her we wish to take her up on her earlier offer of … room and board.”
Jean rubbed his beard thoughtfully, then nodded.
“I’ll send a note to Requin,” said Locke. “I’ll tell him we’re leaving in a day or
two. We won’t be around much longer than that, in truth. I’m no longer confident we
can walk the streets. We can demand an escort to fetch our things from the Villa Candessa
tomorrow, close our suite, put most of our clothes into storage. Then we’ll hide in
the Sword Marina.”
“We have orders to guard your lives,” said the Eye.
“I know,” said Locke. “About the only thing we’re sure of is that for the time being,
your master means to use us, not kill us. So we’ll rely on his hospitality.” Locke
passed the soldier’s glove back to him. “For now.”
TWO CARRIAGES of Eyes, dressed in plain fashion, accompanied Locke and Jean when they
packed their personal effects at the Villa Candessa the next morning.
“We’re heartily sorry to see you go,” said the chief steward as Locke scratched Leocanto
Kosta’s signature onto a last few scraps of parchment. “You’ve been superb guests;
we hope that you’ll consider us again the next time you visit Tal Verrar.”
Locke had no doubt the inn had been glad of their business; at five silvers a day
for a year and a half, plus the price of additional services, he and Jean had left
behind a pile of solari large enough to purchase a decent-sized house of their own
and hire capable staff.
“Pressing matters compel our presence elsewhere,” muttered Locke coldly. He rebuked
himself in his thoughts a moment later—it wasn’t the steward’s fault they were being
chased from comfort by Stragos, Bondsmagi, and bloody mysterious assassins. “Here,”
he said, fishing three solari out of his coat and setting them down on the desk. “See
that this is split evenly and passed out to everyone on staff.” He turned his palm
up, and with a minor bit of legerdemain conjured another gold coin. “And this for
yourself, to express our compliments for your hospitality.”
“Return
anytime
,” said the steward, bowing deeply.
“We shall,” said Locke. “Before we go, I’d like to arrange to have some of our wardrobe
stored indefinitely. You can be certain we’ll be back to claim it.”
While the steward happily scrawled the necessary orders on a parchment, Locke borrowed
a square of the Villa Candessa’s pale blue formal stationery. On this he wrote,
I depart immediately by the means previously discussed. Rely upon my return. I remain
deeply grateful for the forbearance you have shown me
.
Locke watched the steward seal it in the house’s black wax, and said, “See that this
is delivered without fail to the master of the Sinspire. If not personally, then only
to his majordomo, Selendri. They will want it immediately.”
Locke suppressed a smile at the slight widening of the steward’s eyes. The suggestion
that Requin had a vested personal interest in the contents of the note would do much
to speed it safely on its way. Nonetheless, Locke still planned to send another copy
later through one of Stragos’ agents. No sense in taking chances.
“So much for those fine beds,” said Jean as he carried their two trunks of remaining
possessions out to the waiting carriages. They had kept only their implements of thieving—lockpicks,
weapons, alchemical dyes, disguise items—plus a few hundred solari in cold metal,
and a few sets of tunics and breeches to take to sea. “So much for Jerome de Ferra’s
money.”
“So much for Durenna and Corvaleur,” said Locke with a tight smile. “So much for looking
over our shoulders everywhere we go. Because, in truth, we’re stepping into a cage.
But just for a few days.”
“No,” said Jean thoughtfully as he stepped up into a carriage door held open by a
bodyguard. “No, the cage goes on, much farther than that. It goes wherever we go.”
THEIR TRAINING with Caldris, which resumed that afternoon, only grew more arduous.
The sailing master walked them from end to end of the ship, drilling them in the operation
of everything from the capstan to the cooking box. With the help of a pair of Eyes,
they unlashed the ship’s boat, hoisted it over the side, and retrieved it. They pulled
the gratings from the main-deck cargo hatches and practiced sending barrels up and
down with various arrangements of block and tackle. Everywhere they went, Caldris
had them tying knots and naming obscure devices.
Locke and Jean were given the stern cabin of the
Red Messenger
for their living quarters. At sea, Jean’s compartment would be separated from Locke’s
by a thin wall of stiffened canvas—and Caldris’ equally tiny “cabin” would be just
across the passage—but for now they made the space into tolerably comfortable bachelor
accommodations. The necessity of their enclosure seemed to impress upon them both
the utter seriousness of their situation, and they redoubled their efforts, learning
confusing new things with speed they had not required since they had last been under
the tutelage of Father Chains. Locke found himself falling asleep with his copy of
the
Lexicon
for a pillow nearly every night.
Mornings they sailed their dinghy west of the city, within the glass reefs but with
increasing confidence that only somewhat eclipsed actual skill. Afternoons, Caldris
would call out items and locations on the deck of the ship and expect them to run
to each place he named.
“Binnacle,” the sailing master cried, and Locke and Jean raced together for the small
wooden box just beside the ship’s wheel that held a compass and several other navigational
aids. No sooner had they touched it than Caldris cried, “Taffrail,” which was easy
enough—the stern rail at the very end of the ship. Next, Caldris shouted, “Craplines!”
Locke and Jean ran past the bemused kitten, who lounged on the sunlit quarterdeck
licking her paws. They were grimacing as they ran, for the craplines were what they’d
be bracing themselves against when they crawled out onto the bowsprit to
relieve themselves into the sea. More commodious methods of shitting were for rich
passengers on larger vessels.
“Mizzenmast,” bellowed Caldris, and Locke and Jean both fetched up short, breathing
heavily.
“Ship doesn’t bloody have one,” said Locke. “Just foremast and mainmast!”
“Oh, clever you! You’ve undone my subtle ruse, Master Kosta. Get your bloody uniform
and we’ll let you act the peacock for a few hours.”
The three men worked together across the days to define a system of hand and verbal
signals, with Locke and Jean making a few sensible adaptations from their existing
private language.
“Privacy on a ship at sea is about as real as fucking fairy piss,” Caldris grumbled
one afternoon. “I might not be able to give you clear spoken instructions with gods-know-who
watching and listening. We’ll work with lots of nudges and whispers. If you know something
complicated is coming up, best thing to say is just—”
“Let’s see if you know your business, Caldris!” Locke found that the Verrari naval
uniform was a great aid when it came to conjuring an authoritative voice.
“Right. That or something like it. And if one of the sailors cops technical and wants
your opinion on something you don’t know …”
“Come now, Imaginary Seaman, surely I don’t have to spell it out for you like a child?”
“Right, good. Give me another one.”
“Gods damn you, I know this ship’s lines like the back of my hand!” Locke looked down
his nose at Caldris, which was only possible because his leather boots added an inch
and a half to his height. “And I know what she’s capable of. Trust my judgment or
feel free to start swimming.”
“Yes. A fine job, Master Kosta!” The sailing master squinted at Locke and scratched
his beard. “Where
does
Master Kosta go when you do that? What
exactly
is it you do for a living, Leocanto?”
“I do this, I suppose. I’m a professional pretender. I … act.”
“On the stage?”
“Once upon a time. Jerome and I both. Now I suppose we make this ship our stage.”
“Indeed you do.” Caldris moved to the wheel (which was actually a pair of wheels,
joined by a mechanism below the deck, to allow more than one sailor to exert their
strength against it in hard weather), evading a brief attack on his bare feet from
the kitten. “Places!”
Locke and Jean hurried to the quarterdeck to stand near him, ostensibly
aloof and concentrating on their own tasks, while remaining close enough to pick up
on a whisper or a prompting gesture.
“Imagine us beating to windward with the breeze coming in across the larboard bow,”
said Caldris. It was necessary to imagine, for in the enclosed little bay not the
slightest breeze stirred. “The time has come for us to tack. Just sound off the steps.
I need to know you’ve got them down.”
Locke pictured the operation in his head. No square-rigged ship could sail straight
into the wind. To move a desired direction against the breeze required sailing at
something like a forty-five degree angle to it, and switching over at intervals to
present different sides of the bow to the wind. It was in effect a series of zigzags,
tack after tack, arduously clawing in a desired direction. Each changeover, from larboard
tack to starboard tack or vice versa, was a delicate operation with many opportunities
for disaster.
“Master Caldris,” he bellowed, “we shall put the ship about. The wheel is yours.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Master de Ferra!”
Jean gave three short blasts on the whistle he wore, as Locke did, around his neck.
“All hands! All hands ready to put the ship about!”
“Master Caldris,” said Locke. “Neatness counts. Seize your wheel. Put your helm down.”
Locke waited a few seconds for dramatic effect, then yelled, “Helm a-lee!”
Caldris mimed hauling the wheel in the direction of the ship’s lee side, in this case
the starboard, which would tilt the rudder in the opposite direction. Locke conjured
a vivid mental picture of the sudden press of water against it, forcing the ship into
a turn to larboard. They would be coming into the eye of the wind, feeling its full
force; an error at this point could “lock them in irons,” stalling all progress, stealing
power from rudder and sails alike. They would be helpless for minutes, or worse—an
error like that in heavy weather could flip them, and ships were not acrobats.
“Imaginary Sailors! Tacks and sheets!” Jean waved his arms and hollered his instructions
to the invisible deckhands. “Smartly now, you slothful dogs!”
“Master de Ferra,” called Locke, “that Imaginary Sailor is not minding his duty!”
“I’ll fuckin’ kill you later, you cabbage-brained pig-rapist! Seize your rope and
wait for my word!”
“Master Caldris!” Locke whirled toward the sailing master, who was nonchalantly sipping
from a leather skin of pinkwater. “Hard over!”
“Aye, sir.” He belched and set the skin down on the deck at his feet. “By your word,
hard over.”
“Up mainsail,” cried Locke.
“Bowlines off! Braces off!” Jean blew another blast on his whistle. “Yards around
for the starboard tack!”
In Locke’s mind, the ship’s bow was now tilting past the heart of the wind; the larboard
bow would become their lee, and the wind would blow in across the starboard side of
the ship. The yards would be rapidly rebraced for the sails to take advantage of the
wind’s new aspect, and Caldris would be frantically reversing his wheel’s turn. The
Red Messenger
would need to stabilize her new course; if she was pushed too far to larboard, they
might find themselves moving in the opposite of their intended direction, with the
sails braced improperly to boot. They would be lucky to be merely embarrassed by such
a fiasco.
“Hard over,” he yelled again.
“Aye sir,” cried Caldris. “Heard the captain fine the first time.”
“Lines on! Braces on!” Jean blew his whistle yet again. “Haul off all, you fuckin’
maggots!”
“We’re now on the starboard tack, Captain,” said Caldris. “Surprisingly, we didn’t
lose her in stays and we’ll all live to see another hour.”
“Aye, no bloody thanks to this useless cur of an Imaginary Sailor!” Locke mimed grabbing
a man and forcing him to the deck. “What’s your gods-damned problem, you work-shirking
little orlop worm?”