Authors: Scott Lynch
“Port Prodigal’s still there, of course. Only one left. Montierre was doing well until
the war against the Free Armada. Prodigal’s tucked well back in a fine defensive position;
Montierre wasn’t. After we did for their fleet, we paid a visit. Burnt their fishing
boats, poisoned their wells, sank their docks. Torched everything standing, then torched
the ashes. Might as well have just rubbed the name ‘Montierre’ off the map. Place
ain’t worth resetting.”
“And Hope-of-Silver?”
“Hope-of-Silver,” said Caldris, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Fifty years ago,
Hope-of-Silver was larger than Port Prodigal. On a different island, farther west.
Thriving. That silver wasn’t just a hope. Three hundred families, give or take.
“Whatever happened, happened in one night. Those three hundred families, just … gone.”
“Gone?”
“Gone. Vanished. Not a body to be found. Not a bone for birds to pick at. Something
came down from those hills, out of that fog above the jungle, and gods know what it
was, but it took ’em all.”
“Merciful hells.”
“If only,” said Caldris. “A ship or two poked around after it happened. They found
one ship from Hope-of-Silver itself, drifting offshore, like it’d put out in a real
hurry. On it, they found the only bodies left from the whole mess. A few sailors.
All the way up the masts, up at the very tops.” Caldris sighed. “They’d lashed themselves
there to escape whatever they’d seen … and they were all found dead by their own weapons.
Even where they were, they killed themselves rather than face whatever was comin’
for ’em.
“So pay attention to this, Master Kosta.” Caldris gestured at the circle of relaxed
and rowdy sailors, drinking and throwing knives by the light of alchemical globes.
“You sail a sea where shit like that happens, you can see the value of making your
ship a happy home.”
“NEED A word, Captain Ravelle.”
A day had passed. The air was still warm and the sun still beat down with palpable
force when not behind the clouds, but the seas were higher and the wind stiffer. The
Red Messenger
lacked the mass to knife deep into
the turbulent waves without shuddering, and so the deck beneath Locke’s feet became
even less of a friend.
Jabril—recovered from his close engagement with a wine bottle—and a pair of older
sailors approached Locke as he stood by the starboard rail late in the afternoon,
holding tight and trying to look casual. Locke recognized the older sailors as men
who’d declared themselves unfit at the start of the voyage; days of rest and large
portions had done them good. Locke, in light of the ship’s understrength complement,
had recently authorized extra rations at every meal. The notion was popular.
“What do you need, Jabril?”
“Cats, Captain.”
The bottom fell out of Locke’s stomach. With heroic effort, he managed to look merely
puzzled. “What about them?”
“We been down on the main deck,” said one of the older sailors. “Sleeping, mostly.
Ain’t seen no cats yet. Usually the little buggers are crawlin’ around, doin’ tricks,
lookin’ to curl up an’ sleep on us.”
“I asked around,” said Jabril. “Nobody’s seen even one. Not on the main deck, not
up here, not on the orlop. Not even in the bilges. You keepin’ em in your cabin?”
“No,” said Locke, picturing with perfect clarity the sight of eight cats (including
Caldris’ kitten) lounging contentedly in an empty armory shack above their private
bay back at the Sword Marina. Eight cats sparring and yowling over bowls of cream
and plates of cold chicken.
Eight cats who were undoubtedly
still
lounging in that shack, right where he’d forgotten them, the night of the fateful
assault on Windward Rock. Five days and seven hundred miles behind them.
“Kittens,” he said quickly. “I got a pack of kittens for this trip, Jabril. I reckoned
a ship with a new name could do with new cats. And I can tell you they’re a hell of
a shy bunch—I myself haven’t seen one since I dumped them on the orlop. I expect they’re
just getting used to us. We’ll see them soon enough.”
“Aye, sir.” Locke was surprised at the relief visible on the faces of the three sailors.
“That’s good to hear. Bad enough we got no women aboard until we get to the Ghostwinds;
no cats would be plain awful.”
“Couldn’t tolerate no such offense,” whispered one of the older sailors.
“We’ll put out some meat every night,” said Jabril. “We’ll keep poking around the
decks. I’ll let you know soon as we find one.”
“By all means,” said Locke.
Seasickness had nothing to do with his sudden urge to throw up over the side the moment
they were gone.
ON THE evening of their fifth day out from Tal Verrar, Caldris sat down for a private
conversation in Locke’s cabin with the door locked.
“We’re doing well,” the sailing master said, though Locke could see dark circles like
bruises under his eyes. The old man had slept barely four hours a day since they’d
reached the sea, unable to trust the wheel to Locke or Jean’s care without supervision.
He’d finally cultivated a fairly responsible master’s mate, a man called Bald Mazucca,
but even he was lacking in lore and could only be trained a little each day, with
Caldris’ attention so divided.
They continued to be blessed by the behavior of the rest of the crew. The men were
still fresh with vigor for any sort of work following their escape from prison. A
half-assed carpenter and a decent sailmaker had been found, and one of Jabril’s friends
had been optimistically voted quartermaster, in charge of counting and dividing plunder
when it came. The infirm were gaining health with speed, and several had already joined
watches. Lastly, the men no longer gathered to stare nervously across the ship’s wake,
looking for any hint of pursuit on the sea behind them. They seemed to think that
they had evaded Stragos’ retribution … and of course they could never be told that
none would be forthcoming.
“This is your doing,” said Locke, patting Caldris on the shoulder. He berated himself
for not thinking beforehand of what a strain the voyage would put on the older man.
Mazucca would have to be shaped more quickly, and he and Jean would need to pick up
whatever slack they could in their inept fashion. “Even with a glassy sea and a fine
breeze, there’s no way in hell we’d have pulled this off so far without you.”
“Strong weather coming, though,” said Caldris. “Weather that will test us. Summer’s
end, like I said, shit blows up that’s like to knock you halfway round the world.
Might spend days riding it out with bare poles, throwing up until there ain’t a dry
spot in the holds.” The sailing master sighed, then gave Locke a curious look. “Speaking
of holds, I heard the damnedest things the past day or two.”
“Oh?” Locke tried to sound nonchalant.
“Ain’t nobody seen a cat, not on any of the decks. Not a one has come up from wherever
they are, not for anything, ale or milk or eggs or meat.” Sudden suspicion clouded
his brow. “There are cats down there … right?”
“Ah,” said Locke. His sympathy for Caldris from a moment earlier remained like a weight
on his heart. For once, he found himself completely unwilling to lie, and he massaged
his eyes with his fingers as he spoke. “Ah.
No, the cats are all safe and sound in their shack in the Sword Marina, right where
I left them. Sorry.”
“You fucking jest,” said Caldris in a flat, dead voice. “Come now. Don’t bloody lie
to me about this.”
“I’m not.” Locke spread his palms before him and shrugged. “I know you told me it
was important. I just … I had a hundred things to do that night. I meant to fetch
them, honest.”
“
Important
? I told you it was
important
? I told you it was fucking critical, is what I told you!” Caldris kept his voice
at a whisper, but it was like the sound of water boiling against hot coals. Locke
winced. “You have imperiled our
souls
, Master Kosta, our very gods-damned souls. We have no women and no cats and no proper
captain
, I remind you, and hard weather sits upon our course.”
“Sorry, honestly.”
“Honestly, indeed. I was a fool to send a land-sucker to fetch cats. I should have
sent cats to fetch me a land-sucker! They wouldn’t have disappointed me.”
“Now, surely, when we reach Port Prodigal—”
“
When
is an audacious assumption, Leocanto. For long before then the crew will cop wise
to the fact that our cats are not merely shy, but
imaginary
. If they decide the cats have died off, they will just assume that we are cursed
and abandon the ship when we touch land. If, however, the absence of smelly little
bodies leads them to deduce that their fuckin’ captain in fact brought
none
, they will hang you from a yardarm.”
“Ouch.”
“You think I jest? They will
mutiny
. If we see another sail on that horizon, in any direction, we must give chase. We
must bring a fight. You know why?
So we can take some of their bloody cats
. Before it’s too late.”
Caldris sighed before continuing, and suddenly looked ten years older. “If it’s a
summer’s-end storm coming up on us,” said Caldris, “it’ll be moving north and west,
faster than we can sail. We’ll have to pass through it, for we cannot outrun it by
beating up to the east. It’ll catch us still, and it’ll only catch us tired. I’ll
do my damnedest, but you’d better pray in your cabin tonight for one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Cats falling from the bloody sky.”
OF COURSE, no convenient rain of screeching felines was forthcoming that night, and
when Locke made his first appearance on the quarterdeck the next morning, there was
an ugly ghost-gray haze looming on the southern horizon like the shadow of an angry
god. The bright medallion of the sun rising in the otherwise clear sky only made it
seem more sinister. The starboard heel of the deck was yet more pronounced, and walking
to anywhere on the larboard bow felt almost like going up a small hill. Waves slapped
the hull and were pulverized to spray, filling the air with the smell and taste of
salt.
Jean was drilling a small group of sailors with swords and polearms at the ship’s
waist, and Locke nodded knowingly, as though he caught every nuance of their practice
and approved. He toured the deck of the
Red Messenger
, greeting sailors by name, and tried to ignore the feeling that Caldris’ gaze was
burning holes in the back of his tunic.
“A fine morning to you, Captain,” muttered the sailing master when Locke approached
the wheel. Caldris looked ghoulish in the bright sunlight: his hair and beard washed
whiter, his eyes sunken in deeper shadow, every line on his face newly re-etched by
the hand of whatever god claimed him.
“Did you sleep last night, Master Caldris?”
“I found myself strangely unable, Captain.”
“You must rest sometime.”
“Aye, and the ship must generally stay above the waves, or so I’ve heard it suggested.”
Locke sighed, faced the bow, and studied the darkening southern sky. “A summer’s-end
storm, I daresay. Been through enough of them in my time.” He spoke loudly and casually.
“Soon enough you’ll be in one more, Captain.”
Locke spent the afternoon counting stores in the main hold with Mal as his scribe,
marking little lines on a wax tablet. They ducked and weaved through a forest of salted
meat in treated cloth sacks, hung from the beams in the hold and swaying steadily
with the increasing motion of the ship. The hold was danker already from constant
occupation by the crew; those who had been inclined to sleep in the more open space
beneath the forecastle had abandoned it as the promise of hard weather had loomed.
Locke was certain he smelled piss; someone was either too lazy or too frightened to
crawl out and use the craplines. That could get ugly.
The whole sky was a cataract of haze-gray by the fourth hour of the
afternoon. Caldris, slumped against the mast for a brief respite while Bald Mazucca
and another sailor held the wheel, ordered sails trimmed and lanterns passed around
from the storm lockers. Jean and Jabril led parties belowdecks to ensure that their
cargo and equipment was all properly stowed. A weapons locker flying open, or a barrel
tumbling around in a rocking ship, would send hapless sailors to meet the gods.
After dinner, at Caldris’ whispered insistence, Locke ordered those sailors who’d
dipped into the ship’s store of tobacco to smoke their last until further notice.
Open flames would no longer be tolerated anywhere; alchemical lanterns would provide
all of their light, and they would use the hearthstone or—more likely—take cold meals.
Locke promised an extra half of a wine ration each night if that became necessary.
A premature darkness had infused the sky by the time Locke and Jean could sit down
for a quiet drink in the stern cabin. Locke closed the shutters over his stern windows,
and the compartment seemed smaller than ever. Locke regarded the dubious comforts
of this symbol of Ravelle’s authority: a padded hammock against the larboard bulkhead,
a pair of stools, his sword and knives hung on the wall by storm clasps. Their “table”
was a flat wooden board atop Locke’s chest. Sad as it was, it was princely compared
to the glorified closets claimed by Jean and Caldris, or the way the men seemed to
burrow in cargo and canvas matting on the main deck.
“I’m so sorry about the cats,” said Locke.
“I could have remembered as well,” said Jean. Unspoken was the obvious statement that
he’d trusted Locke enough not to feel that he needed to concern himself. Jean might
be doing his best to stay polite, but guilt twisted in Locke’s stomach more sharply
for it.
“No sharing this blame,” said Locke, sipping his warm ale. “I’m the captain of the
bloody ship.”
“Don’t be grandiose.” Jean scratched his belly, which had been reduced by his recent
activity to a much less dramatic curve than it had once possessed. “We’ll think of
something. Hell, if we spend a few days plowing through a storm, the men won’t have
time to worry about anything except when and how hard to piss their breeches.”