Authors: Scott Lynch
“First mate de Ferra beats me cruelly,” cried Jean in a squeaky voice. “He is a monstrous
bad fellow, who makes me wish I’d taken priest’s orders and never set foot aboard!”
“Of course he does! It’s what I pay him for.” Locke mimed hefting a blade. “For your
crimes, I swear you’ll die on this very deck, unless you can answer two bloody questions!
First—where the hell is my
nonimaginary
crew? And second, why in the name of all the gods am I supposed to practice wearing
this damned uniform?”
He was startled out of his act by the sound of applause from behind him. He whirled
to see Merrain standing just beside the entry port at the ship’s rail; she’d come
up the ramp in absolute silence.
“Oh, wonderful!” She smiled at the three men on deck, stooped down, and plucked up
the kitten, who’d moved immediately to attack Merrain’s fine leather boots. “Very
convincing. But your poor invisible sailor doesn’t have the answers you seek.”
“Are you here to name someone who does?”
“On the morrow,” she said, “the archon orders you to take the sails of one of his
private boats. He wishes to see a demonstration of your skills before you receive
your final orders for sea. He and I will be your passengers. If you can keep our heads
above water, he’ll show you where your crew is. And why we’ve had you practicing with
that uniform.”
THERE WAS ONE GUARD PACING the dock at the base of the lonely island. His soft yellow
lamp cast rippling light across the black water as Locke threw him a rope from within
the little launch. Rather than tying them up, the guard thrust his lantern down toward
Locke, Jean, and Caldris, and said, “This dock is strictly off … oh, gods. My apologies,
sir.”
Locke grinned, feeling the authority of the full Verrari captain’s uniform enfold
him like nothing so much as a warm blanket. He grabbed a piling and heaved himself
up onto the dock while the guard saluted him awkwardly with his lantern hand crossed
over his chest.
“Gods defend the archon of Tal Verrar,” said Locke. “Carry on. It’s your job to challenge
strange boats at night, soldier.”
While the soldier tied the launch to a piling, Locke reached down and helped Jean
up. Moving gracefully in the now-familiar costume, Locke then stepped around behind
the dock guard, unfurled a leather crimper’s hood from within his jacket, slammed
it down over the soldier’s head, and cinched the drawstring tight.
“Gods know there’s none stranger than ours that you’re ever likely to see.”
Jean held the soldier by his arms while the drugs inside the hood did their job. He
lacked the constitution of the last man Locke had tried to knock out with such a hood,
and sagged after just a few seconds of muffled struggle. When Locke and Jean tied
him firmly to the piling at the far corner of the dock and stuffed a rag in his mouth,
he was sleeping peacefully.
Caldris clambered out of the boat, picked up the guard’s lantern, and began pacing
with it in his place.
Locke stared up at the stone tower that was their objective; seven stories tall, its
battlements were orange-lit by alchemical navigation beacons warning ships away. Ordinarily
there would be guards up there as well, watching the waters and the dock, but the
hand of Stragos was already at work. Nothing moved atop the tower.
“Come on, then,” Locke whispered to Jean. “Let’s get inside and do some recruiting.”
“IT’S CALLED Windward Rock,” Stragos said. He pointed at the stone tower that jutted
from the little island, perhaps a single arrow-flight from the line of hissing white
surf that marked Tal Verrar’s outer barrier of glass reefs. They floated at anchor
in seventy feet of water, a good mile west of the Silver Marina. The warm morning
sun was just rising over the city behind them, making tiers of soft light from its
layers of foggy haze.
True to Merrain’s word, Stragos had arrived at dawn in a thirty-foot launch of polished
black wood, with comfortable leather seats at the stern and gold-gilded scrollwork
on every surface. Locke and Jean were given the sails under Caldris’ minimal supervision,
while Merrain sat in the bow. Locke had wondered if she was ever comfortable anywhere
else.
They had sailed north, then rounded the Silver Marina and turned west, chasing the
last blue shadow of the night sky on the far horizon.
They rode on for a few minutes, until Merrain whistled for everyone’s attention and
pointed to her left, across the starboard bow. A tall, dark structure could be seen
rising above the waves in the distance. Orange lights glowed at its peak.
Soon enough they had dropped anchor to regard the lonely tower. If Stragos had no
praise for Locke and Jean’s handling of the vessel, neither did he offer any criticism.
“Windward Rock,” said Jean. “I’ve heard of it. Some sort of fortress.”
“A prison, Master de Ferra.”
“Will we be visiting it this morning?”
“No,” said Stragos. “You’ll be returning and landing soon enough. For now, I just
wanted you to see it … and I wanted to tell you a little story. I have in my service
a particularly unreliable captain, who has until now done a splendid job of concealing
his shortcomings.”
“Words cannot express how truly sorry I am to hear that,” said Locke.
“He will betray me,” said Stragos. “His plans for months have been leading up to a
grand and final betrayal. He will steal something of great value from me and turn
it against me for all to see.”
“You should have been watching him more closely,” Locke muttered.
“I have been,” said Stragos. “And I am right now. The captain I speak of is you.”
WINDWARD ROCK had only one set of doors, iron-bound, eleven feet tall, locked and
guarded from the inside. A small panel in the wall beside them slid open as Locke
and Jean approached, and a head silhouetted by lamplight appeared behind it. The guardswoman’s
voice was devoid of banter: “Who passes?”
“An officer of archon and Council,” said Locke with ritual formality. “This man is
my boatswain. These are my orders and papers.”
He passed a set of documents rolled into a tight tube to the woman behind the door.
She slid the panel closed over her watch-hole, and Locke and Jean waited in silence
for several minutes, listening to the rushing passage of surf over the nearby reefs.
Two moons were just coming up, gilding the southern horizon with silver, and the stars
dusted the cloudless sky like confectioners’ sugar thrown against a black canvas.
Finally, there was a metallic clatter, and the heavy doors swung outward on creaking
hinges. The guardswoman stepped out to meet them, saluting, but not returning Locke’s
papers.
“My apologies for the delay, Captain Ravelle. Welcome to Windward Rock.”
Locke and Jean followed her into the tower’s entrance hall, which was divided into
two halves by a wall of black iron bars running from floor to ceiling across its breadth.
On the far side of these bars, a man behind a wooden desk had control of whatever
mechanism closed the gates—they clattered shut behind Locke and Jean after a few seconds.
The man, like the woman, wore the archon’s blue under ribbed black leather armor:
bracers, vest, and neck-guard. He was clean-shaven and handsome, and he waited behind
the bars as the female guard approached to pass him Locke’s papers.
“Captain Orrin Ravelle,” she said. “And boatswain. Here with orders from the archon.”
The man studied Locke’s papers at length before nodding and passing
them back through the bars. “Of course. Good evening, Captain Ravelle. This man is
your boatswain, Jerome Valora?”
“Yes, Lieutenant.”
“You’re to view the prisoners in the second vault? Anyone in particular?”
“Just a general viewing, Lieutenant.”
“As you will.” The man slid a key from around his neck, opened the only gate set into
the wall of iron bars, and stepped out toward them smiling. “We’re pleased to render
any aid the Protector requires, sir.”
“I very much doubt that,” said Locke, letting a stiletto slip into his left hand.
He reached out and gave the female guard a slash behind her right ear, across the
unprotected skin between her leather neck-guard and her tightly coifed hair. She cried
out, whirled, and had her blackened-steel saber out of its scabbard in an instant.
Jean was tackling the male guard before her blade was even out; the man uttered a
surprised choking noise as Jean slammed him against the bars and gave him a sharp
chop to the neck with the edge of his right hand. The leather armor robbed the blow
of its lethal possibilities without dulling the shock of impact. Gasping, the guard
was easily pinned from behind by Jean, who immobilized his arms and held him in a
grip like iron.
Locke darted backward out of the female guard’s reach as she slashed with her blade.
Her first attack was swift and nearly accurate. Her second was a bit slower, and Locke
had no trouble avoiding it. She readied a third swing and misstepped, tripping over
her own feet. Her mouth hung open in confusion.
“You … fucker …,” she muttered. “Poi … poi … son.”
Locke winced as she toppled facefirst to the stone floor; he’d meant to catch her,
but the stuff on the blade was faster than he’d expected.
“You bastard,” coughed the lieutenant, straining uselessly in Jean’s hold, “you killed
her!”
“Of course I didn’t kill her, you twit. Honestly, you people … pull a blade anywhere
around here and everyone assumes straightaway that you’ve killed someone.” Locke stepped
up before the guard and showed him the stiletto. “Stuff on the edge is called witfrost.
You have a good hard sleep all night, wake up around noon. At which time you’ll feel
like hell. Apologies. So do you want it in the neck or in the palm of your hand?”
“You … you gods-damned traitor!”
“Neck it is.” Locke gave the man his own shallow cut just behind his left ear and
barely counted to eight before he was hanging in Jean’s arms,
limper than wet silk. Jean set the lieutenant down gently and plucked a small ring
of iron keys from his belt.
“Right,” said Locke. “Let’s pay a visit to the second vault.”
“RAVELLE DIDN’T exist until a month ago,” said Stragos. “Not until I had you to build
the lie around. A dozen of my most trusted men and women will swear after the fact
that he was real; that they shared assignments and meals with him, that they spoke
of duties and trifles in his company.
“My finnickers have prepared orders, duty rosters, pay vouchers, and other documents,
and seeded them throughout my archives. Men using the name of Ravelle have rented
rooms, purchased goods, ordered tailored uniforms delivered to the Sword Marina. By
the time I’m dealing with the consequences of your betrayal, he’ll seem real in fact
and memory.”
“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.”
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.