Authors: Scott Lynch
“It’s true,” said Locke. “I’m not a sea-officer. That should be obvious to everyone
by now.”
“What the hell are you, then?” Jabril and the men seemed genuinely confused. “You
had a Verrari uniform. You got in and out of Windward Rock. The archon took this ship,
and you got it back. What’s the gods-damned game?”
Locke realized that an unsatisfactory answer to this question would have hard consequences;
those things really did add up to a mystery too considerable to brush off. He scratched
his chin, then put up his hands. “Okay, look. Only
some
of what I told you was a lie. I, ah, I really
was
an officer in the archon’s service, just not a
naval
officer. I was one of his captains of intelligence.”
“Intelligence?” cried Aspel, who held a bow atop the forecastle. “What, you mean spies
and things like that?”
“Exactly,” said Locke. “Spies. And things like that. I hate the archon. I was sick
of his service. I figured … I figured with a crew and a ship I had a sure way to get
the hell out and give him grief at the same time. Caldris came along to do all the
real work, while I was learning.”
“Aye,” said Jabril. “But that’s not what happened. You didn’t just lie to us about
what you was.” He turned his back to Locke and Jean to address the crew. “He brought
us out to sea without a woman aboard the ship!”
Scowls, catcalls, rude gestures, and no few hand-signs against evil. The crew were
not well pleased to be reminded of that subject.
“Hold fast,” shouted Locke, “I meant to bring women with us; I had four women on my
list. Didn’t you see them at Windward Rock? Other prisoners? They all went down with
a fever. They had to be put back ashore, don’t you see?”
“If that was you,” shouted Jabril, “maybe you thought of it once, but what did you
do to fix it when they fell sick?”
“The archon took the bloody prisoners, not me,” said Locke. “I had to work with what
that left me. It left me
you
!”
“So it did,” said Jabril, “and then you fuckin’ brought us out here without
one single cat
neither!”
“Caldris told me to get some,” said Locke. “Forgive me, I just … I said I’m not a
sailor, right? I got busy sneaking out of Tal Verrar and I left them behind. I didn’t
understand!”
“Indeed,” said Jabril. “You had no business out here if you didn’t know the bloody
mandates! Because of you, this ship is cursed! We’re lucky to be alive, those of us
that
is
. Five men paid for what was rightly your sin! Your ignorance of what’s due Iono Stormfather
by those that sail his waters!”
“Lord of the Grasping Waters shield us!” said another sailor.
“Our misfortune’s been made by you,” Jabril continued. “You admit your
lies and ignorance. I say this ship ain’t clean till we get you off her! What’s the
word of all?”
There was a loud, immediate, and unanimous chorus of agreement; the sailors shook
their weapons at Locke and Jean as they cheered.
“That’s that,” said Jabril. “Drop your weapons on the deck.”
“Wait,” said Locke. “You said we’d talk, and I’m not finished!”
“I brought you on deck safe, and we did talk. Talk’s finished, oath’s paid off.” Jabril
folded his arms. “Lose your weapons!”
“Now—”
“Archers!” yelled Jabril. The men atop the forecastle took aim.
“What’s the choice?” Locke shouted angrily. “Disarm so we can
what
?”
“Keep your arms and die bleeding on this deck,” said Jabril. “Or disarm, and swim
as far as you can. Let Iono be your judge.”
“Quick and painful or slow and painful. Right.” Locke unbound his sword-belt and let
it drop to the deck. “Master Valora had nothing to do with my cock-ups. I dragged
him into this same as you!”
“Now, wait a fucking minute …,” said Jean, as he set the Wicked Sisters respectfully
down at his feet.
“What say you, Valora?” Jabril looked around for objections from the crew and saw
none. “Ravelle’s the liar. Ravelle admits the crime is his; away with him and the
curse is lifted fair. You’d be welcome to stay.”
“He swims, I swim,” Jean growled.
“He worth that much to you?”
“I don’t have to bloody well explain myself.”
“So be it. That I respect,” said Jabril. “Time to go.”
“No,” shouted Locke as several sailors advanced, swords held at guard. “No! I have
one thing to say first.”
“You had your say. Stormfather’ll judge what else there is.”
“When I found you,” said Locke, “you were in a vault. Under a fucking
rock
. You were locked away beneath iron and stone! You were fit to die or to push oars
for the archon’s pleasure. You were dead and rotting, every last miserable one of
you!”
“Heard this already,” said Jabril.
“Maybe I’m not a sea-officer,” said Locke. “Maybe I deserve this; maybe you’re doing
right to punish the man that’s brought you this misfortune. But I am also the man
who freed you.
I am the man who gave you any life you have
. You spit on that gift before the gods to do this to me!”
“You saying you want the arrows, then?” said Aspel, and the men around him laughed.
“No,” said Jabril, holding up his hands. “No. There’s a point. This ain’t a
happy ship in the eyes of the gods, that’s for bloody sure. Our luck is tight-drawn
as it is, even once we’re rid of him. He needs to die for the crimes he’s done; for
his lies and his ignorance and the men who won’t see land again. But he did free us.”
Jabril looked around and bit his lip before continuing. “We
do
owe him for that. I say we give them the boat.”
“We need that boat,” hollered Mazucca.
“Lots of boats in Port Prodigal,” said Streva. “Maybe we can take one as plunder on
the way down there.”
“Aye, that and cats,” shouted another sailor.
“Open boat,” said Jabril. “No food, no water, says I. They go in as they are now.
Let Iono take them as and when he will. What’s the word of all?”
The word of all was another outburst of enthusiastic approval. Even Mazucca gave in
and nodded.
“Just a longer swim, in the end,” said Locke.
“Well,” whispered Jean, “at least you talked them into that much.”
THE SHIP’S boat was unlashed, hoisted out, and plopped over the starboard side into
the deep blue waters of the Sea of Brass.
“They get oars, Jabril?” One of the sailors had been assigned the task of removing
the water cask and rations from the boat, and he’d pulled out the oars as well.
“Think not,” said Jabril. “Iono moves them if he wants them moved. We leave them to
float; that was the word.”
Parties of armed sailors lined up fore and aft to prod Locke and Jean toward the starboard
entry port. Jabril followed close behind. When they reached the edge, Locke saw that
the boat was tied up with one knotted line that would allow them to climb down.
“Ravelle,” said Jabril quietly. “You really hold with the Thirteenth? You really one
of his divines?”
“Yeah,” said Locke. “It was the only honest blessing I could give for their sakes.”
“I suppose that makes sense. Spies, things like that.” Jabril slipped something cold
beneath Locke’s tunic, against the small of his back, sliding it precariously into
the top of his breeches. Locke recognized the weight of one of the stilettos from
his belt.
“Stormfather maybe takes you fast,” whispered Jabril, “or maybe he lets you float.
Long fuckin’ time. Until you decide you just plain had
enough
… you know?”
“Jabril,” said Locke, “… thank you. I, ah, wish I could have been a better captain.”
“I wish you’d been any kinda captain at all. Now get over the fuckin’ side and be
gone.”
So it was that Locke and Jean watched from the gently bobbing boat as the
Red Messenger
limped on, southwest by west under tattered sail, leaving them in the middle of nowhere
under a midafternoon sun that Locke would have given ten thousand solari for just
a day or two earlier.
One hundred yards, two hundred, three … their former ship slowly made way across the
rippling sea, at first with what must have been half the crew gazing astern, watching.
But soon enough they lost interest in the dead men in their wake. Soon enough they
returned to the task of keeping their precious little wooden world from succumbing
to its wounds.
Locke wondered who would inherit the stern cabin, Jean’s hatchets, their unusual tools,
and the five hundred solari stashed at the bottom of his personal chest—a mixture
of their last funds and Stragos’ financing.
Thieves prosper, he thought.
“Well, splendid,” he said, stretching his legs as best he could. He and Jean faced
each other from opposite rowing benches of a boat built for six. “Once again we’ve
engineered a brilliant escape from immediate peril, and stolen something of value
to take with us. This boat must be worth two solari.”
“I just hope that whoever ends up with the Wicked Sisters bloody well chokes,” said
Jean.
“What, on the hatchets?”
“No, on anything. Whatever’s convenient. I should’ve thrown them out the cabin window
rather than let someone else have them. Gods.”
“You know, Jabril slipped me a stiletto as I went off.”
Jean seemed to ponder the implications of this for a moment, then shrugged. “When
a smaller boat comes along, at least we’ll have a weapon to board and carry her.”
“Are you, ah, comfortable back there in the stern cabin?”
“I am,” said Jean. He got off the bench, slid sideways, and crammed himself into the
stern with his back against the starboard gunwale. “Bit tight, but luxurious trimmings.”
“That’s good,” said Locke, pointing to the middle of the boat. “Hope it doesn’t get
more cramped when I install the hanging garden and the library right about there.”
“Already took that into account.” Jean leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “Hanging
garden can go in on top of my bathhouse.”
“Which can double as a temple,” said Locke.
“You think that necessary?”
“I do,” said Locke. “I daresay the two of us are going to be doing a hell of a lot
of praying.”
They floated in silence for many minutes. Locke also closed his eyes, breathed deep
of the tangy air, and listened to the faint whisper of the waves. The sun was a warm
and welcome pressure on the top of his head, and this above all conspired to lull
him into a half-dozing state as he sat. He looked within for some hint of anguish
and found only a hollow numbness; he seemed to have relaxed into relief at this final
collapse of all his plans. Nobody else to fool, no more secrets to keep, no duties
required of him or Jean as they drifted, merely drifted, waiting for the gods to make
their next whim known.
Jean’s voice recalled him to the present after some unguessable interval had passed,
and he blinked as he reopened his eyes to the bright gleam of sun on water.
“Locke,” said Jean, evidently repeating himself, “sail ho, three points off the starboard
bow!”
“Ha-ha, Jean. That would be the
Red Messenger
, sailing away from us forever. Surely you remember her.”
“No,” said Jean, more insistent. “
Fresh
sail ho, three points off the starboard bow!”
Locke glanced over his right shoulder, squinting. The
Red Messenger
was still plainly visible, now about three-quarters of a mile distant. And there,
off to the left of his former ship, hard to see at first against the bright fusion
of sea and sky—yes, a dusty white square just cresting the horizon.
“I’ll be damned,” said Locke. “Looks like our lads are going to have their first chance
at some plunder.”
“If only it’d had the courtesy to show up yesterday!”
“I’ll wager I would have screwed things up regardless. But … can you imagine those
poor bastards grappling their prey, leaping over the rails, swords in hand, screaming,
‘Your cats! Give us all your gods-damned cats!’ ”
Jean laughed. “What a bloody mess we’ve unleashed. At least we’ll have some entertainment.
This’ll be damn awkward with the
Messenger
in such a state. Maybe they’ll come back for us and beg us to lend a hand.”
“They’d beg you, maybe,” said Locke.
As Locke watched, the
Messenger
’s forecourse shuddered into existence, an unfolding square of white. Straining, he
could just see tiny figures dashing
to and fro on the deck and in the rigging. His former ship put her bow a touch to
larboard, bringing the wind onto her larboard quarter.
“She’s limping like a horse with a broken ankle,” said Jean. “Look, they won’t trust
the mainmast with any canvas. Can’t say I blame them.” Jean scrutinized the scene
for a few moments more. “Their new friend’s coming up north-northwest, I think. If
our lads sneak west and look harmless enough, maybe … otherwise, that new ship’s got
plenty of room to run west or south. If she’s in any decent shape at all,
Messenger
’ll never catch her.”
“Jean …,” said Locke, very slowly, a bit hesitant to trust his own naval judgment.
“I dont … I don’t think escape is anywhere on their minds. Look, they’re straight
on for the
Messenger
.”
The next few minutes confirmed this. Indeed, the newcomer’s sails soon doubled in
size, and Locke could see the faintest line of the hull beneath them. Whatever she
was, she was angled well north of west, fit to cut straight across the path of the
Red Messenger
.
“And she’s fast,” said Jean, clearly fascinated. “Look at her come on! I’d bet my
own liver the
Messenger
’s not even making four knots. She’s doing twice that or more.”
“Maybe they just don’t give a whit for the
Messenger
,” said Locke. “Maybe they can see she’s wounded and they’re just going to fly right
past.”
“A ‘kiss my ass and fare-thee-well,’ ” said Jean. “Pity.”
The newcomer grew steadily; blurry shapes became a sleek dark hull, billowing sails,
the thin lines of masts.