Authors: Scott Lynch
“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.”
Two younger prisoners stepped forward, looking eager for anything that would relieve
the tedium of what they’d been through.
“Right,” said Locke as he stepped down into their little boat, after Caldris and the
two sailors. “Jerome, Jabril, keep order and quiet. Try to sort out those who can
work right away from those who will need a few days to recover their strength.”
Anchored half a mile out from Windward Rock was a long launch, invisible in the moonlight
until Caldris’ lantern found it from about fifty yards away. Locke and Caldris worked
quickly to rig the boat’s small sail; then, slowly but surely, they steered their
way back toward the prison with the two ex-prisoners rowing the little boat beside
them. Locke glanced around nervously, spotting a sail or two gleaming palely on the
far horizons, but nothing closer.
“Listen well,” he said when the launch was tied up below the dock and surrounded by
his would-be crew. He was pleasantly surprised at how quickly they’d settled down
to the business at hand. Of course, that made sense—they were the crews of impounded
ships, not hard cases imprisoned for individual crimes. It didn’t make saints of them,
but it was nice to have something unforeseen working in his favor for once.
“Able hands take the oars. Don’t be shy if you’re less than able for the time being;
I know some of you have been down there too damn long. Just sit down in the middle
of the launch and take it easy. You can recover yourselves on the voyage out. We’ve
plenty to eat.”
That lent them some cheer. Once at sea, Locke knew, the state of their rations might
easily approach that of the prison slop they were leaving behind, but for a fair few
days they’d have a supply of fresh meat and vegetables to look forward to.
In good order the former prisoners clambered aboard the launch; soon the gunwales
were lined with those claiming to be able-bodied, and oars were being slipped into
their locks. Jabril took the bow, waving up at Locke and Caldris when all was in readiness.
“Right,” said Locke. “The
Messenger
is anchored south of the Sword Marina on the seaward side, wanting nothing save her
crew. One guard stands watch for the night, and I’ll deal with him. Just follow us
and go aboard once I’ve done that; the nets are lowered over the side and the defenses
are stowed.”
Locke took the bow of the small boat and struck what he hoped was an
appropriately regal posture. Jean and Caldris took the oars, and the last two prisoners
sat at the stern, one of them holding Caldris’ lantern.
“Say farewell to Windward Rock, boys,” said Locke. “And bid fuck-you to the archon
of Tal Verrar. We’re bound for sea.”
A SHADOW within shadows watched the two boats depart.
Merrain moved out of her position beside the tower and gave a small wave as the low
gray shapes diminished into the south. She loosed the black silk scarf that had covered
her lower face and pushed back the hood of her black jacket; she had lain in the shadows
beside the tower for nearly two hours, waiting patiently for Kosta and de Ferra to
finish their business. Her own boat was stashed beneath a rocky overhang on the east
side of the island, little more than a cockleshell of treated leather over a wood
frame. Even in moonlight, it was all but invisible on the water.
She padded quietly into the entrance hall of the prison, finding the two guards much
where she expected, carelessly strewn about in the grip of witfrost sleep. True to
the archon’s wishes, Kosta and de Ferra had prevented anyone from harming them.
“Alas for that,” she whispered, kneeling over the lieutenant and running a gloved
finger across his cheeks. “You’re a handsome one.”
She sighed, slipped a knife from its sheath within her jacket, and cut the man’s throat
with one quick slash. Moving back to avoid the growing pool of blood, she wiped the
blade on the guard’s breeches and contemplated the woman lying across the entrance
hall.
The two atop the tower could live; it wouldn’t be plausible for anyone to have climbed
the stairs and gone for them. But she could do the one on the dock, the two here,
and the one who was supposed to be downstairs.
That would be enough, she reckoned—it wasn’t that she desired Kosta and de Ferra to
fail. But if they
did
return successful in their mission, what was to stop Stragos from assigning them
another task? His poison made tools of them indefinitely. And if they
could
return victorious, well … men like that were better off dead if they couldn’t be
put to use on behalf of the interests she served.
Resolved, she set about finishing the job. The thought that for once it would be entirely
painless was a comfort in her work.
“CAPTAIN RAVELLE!”
The soldier was one of those handpicked by the archon to be in on some part of the
deception. He feigned surprise as Locke appeared on the
Red Messenger
’s deck, followed by Jean, Caldris, and the two ex-prisoners. The launch full of men
was just butting up against the ship’s starboard side.
“I didn’t expect you back this evening, sir.… Sir, what’s going on?”
“I have reached a decision,” said Locke, approaching the soldier. “This ship is too
fine a thing for the archon to have. So I am relieving him of its care and taking
it to sea.”
“Now hold on … hold on, sir, that’s not funny.”
“Depends on where you’re standing,” said Locke. He stepped up and delivered a feigned
punch to the soldier’s stomach. “Depends on
if
you’re standing.” By arrangement, the man did a very credible impression of having
received a devastating blow, and fell backward to the deck, writhing. Locke grinned.
Let his new crew whisper of
that
amongst themselves.
The crew in question had just started to come up the boarding nets on the starboard
side. Locke relieved the soldier of his sword, buckler, and knives, then joined Jean
and Caldris at the rail to help the men up.
“What’s to be done with the launch, Captain?” Jabril said as he came over the side.
“It’s too damn big to carry with us on this little bitch,” said Locke. He jerked a
thumb over his shoulder at the “subdued” guard. “We’ll set him adrift in it. Jerome!”
“Aye, sir,” said Jean.
“Get everyone up and muster all hands at the waist. Master Caldris! You know the vessel
best for now; give us light.”
Caldris fetched alchemical lamps from a locker near the wheel, and with Locke’s help
he hung them about the deck until they had more than enough soft golden light to work
by. Jean produced his little whistle and blew three short blasts. In moments, he had
the crew herded into the middle of the ship’s waist, before the mainmast. Before them
all, Locke stood, stripped off his Verrari officer’s coat, and pitched it over the
side. They applauded.
“Now, we must have haste without carelessness,” he said. “Those of you that do not
believe yourselves fit for work, hands up! No shame, lads.”
Locke counted nine hands. Most of the men who raised them were visibly aged or far
too slender for good health, and Locke nodded. “We hold
no grudge for your honesty. You’ll take up your share of work once you’re fit again.
For now, find a spot on the main deck below, or beneath the forecastle. There’s mats
and canvas in the main hold. You may sleep or watch the fun as you see fit. Now, can
anyone among you claim to be any sort of cook?”
One of the men standing behind Jabril raised a hand.
“Good. When the anchor’s up, get below and have a look at the stores. We’ve a brick
firebox at the forecastle, plus an alchemical stone and a cauldron. We’ll want a hell
of a meal once we’re out past the glass reefs, so show some initiative. And tap a
cask of ale.”
The men began cheering at that, and Jean blew his whistle to quiet them down.
“Come, now!” Locke pointed to the darkness of the Elderglass island looming behind
them. “The Sword Marina’s just the other side of that island, and we’re not away yet.
Jerome! Capstan bars and stand by to haul up anchor. Jabril! Fetch rope from Caldris
and help me with this fellow.”
Together, Locke and Jabril hoisted the “incapacitated” soldier to his feet. Locke
tied a loose but very convincing knot around his hands with a scrap of rope provided
by Caldris; once they were gone, the man could work himself free in minutes.
“Don’t kill me, Captain, please,” the soldier muttered.
“I would never,” said Locke. “I need you to carry a message to the archon on my behalf.
Tell him that he may kiss Orrin Ravelle’s ass, that my commission is herewith resigned,
and that the only flag his pretty ship will fly from now on is red.”
Locke and Jabril hoisted the man over the side of the entry port and dropped him the
nine feet into the bottom of the launch. He yelped in (no doubt genuine) pain and
rolled over, but seemed otherwise okay.
“Use those exact words,” Locke cried, and Jabril laughed. “Now! Master Caldris, we
shall make for sea!”
“Very good, Captain Ravelle.” Caldris collared the four men nearest to him and began
leading them below. Under his guidance, they would keep the anchor cable moving smoothly
toward its tier on the orlop.
“Jerome,” said Locke, “hands to the capstan to raise anchor!”
Locke and Jabril joined all the remaining able-bodied members of the crew at the capstan,
where the last of the heavy wooden bars were being slid into their apertures. Jean
blew on his whistle, and the men crammed together shoulder-to-shoulder on the bars.
“Raise anchor! Step-and-on! Step-and-on! Push it hard; she’ll be up ere long!” Jean
chanted at the top of his lungs, giving them a cadence to stamp and shove by. The
men strained
at the capstan, many of them weaker than they would have liked or admitted, but the
mechanism began to turn and the smell of wet cable filled the air.
“Heave-and-up! Heave-and-up! Drop the anchor and we’ll all be fucked!”
Soon enough they managed to heave the anchor up out of the water, and Jean sent a
party forward to the starboard bow to secure it. Most of the men stepped away from
the capstan groaning and stretching, and Locke smiled. Even his old injuries still
felt good after the exercise.
“Now,” he shouted, “who among you sailed this ship when she was the
Fortunate Venture
? Step aside.”
Fourteen men, including Jabril, separated themselves from the others.
“And who among you were fair topmen?”
That got him seven raised hands; good enough for the time being.
“Any of you not familiar with this ship nonetheless comfortable up above?”
Four more men stepped forward, and Locke nodded. “Good lads. You know where you’ll
be, then.” He grabbed one of the non-topmen by the shoulder and steered him toward
the bow. “For’ard watch. Let me know if anything untoward pops up in front of us.”
He grabbed another man and pointed to the mainmast. “Get a glass from Caldris; you’ll
be masthead watch for now. Don’t look at me like that; you won’t be fucking with the
rigging. Just sit still and stay awake.
“Master Caldris,” he bellowed, noting that the sailing master was back on deck, “southeast
by east through the reef passage called Underglass!”
“Aye, sir, Underglass. I know the very one.” Caldris, of course, had plotted their
course through the glass reefs in advance and carefully instructed Locke in the orders
to give until they were out of sight of Tal Verrar. “Southeast by east.”
Jean gestured at the eleven men who’d volunteered for duty up on the heights of the
yardarms, where the furled sails waited, hanging in the moonlight like the thin cocoons
of vast insects. “Hands aloft to loose topsails and t’gallants! On the word, mind
you!”
“Master Caldris,” shouted Locke, unable to disguise his mirth, “now we shall see if
you know your business!”
The
Red Messenger
moved south under topsails and topgallants, making fair use of the stiff breeze blowing
west off the mainland. Her bow sliced smoothly through the calm dark waters, and the
deck beneath their feet heeled only the tiniest bit to starboard. It was a good start,
thought
Locke—a good start to a mad venture. When he had settled most of his crew in temporary
positions, he stole a few minutes at the taffrail, watching the reflections of two
moons in the gentle ripple of their wake.
“You’re enjoying the hell out of yourself, Captain Ravelle.” Jean stepped up to the
taffrail beside him. The two thieves shook hands and grinned at one another.
“I suppose I am,” Locke whispered. “I suppose this is the most lunatic thing we’ve
ever done, and so we’re
entitled
to bloody well enjoy ourselves.”
“Crew seems to have bought the act for now.”
“Well, they’re still fresh from the vault. Tired, underfed, excited. We’ll see how
sharp they are when they’ve had a few days of food and exercise. Gods, at least I
didn’t call anything by the wrong name.”