Authors: Scott Lynch
“You making yourself comfortable?”
“I’m fighting the good fight.” Locke shoved a sack out of the way, and at last had
enough space to rest in. “That’s better.”
A few seconds later, there came the creaking tread of many pairs of feet just overhead,
followed by a scraping noise. The grating to the deck above (which had been wrapped
in oilcloth to seal them in darkness) was being pulled. A wan light intruded into
the blackness, and Locke squinted.
“Doesn’t that just figure,” he muttered.
“Cargo inspection,” came a familiar voice from above. “We’re looking for anything
out of place. You two qualify.”
Jean crawled over to the pale square of light and looked up. “Lieutenant Ezri?”
“Delmastro,” she said. “Ezri Delmastro, hence Lieutenant Delmastro.”
“My apologies. Lieutenant
Delmastro
.”
“That’s the spirit. How do you like your cabin?”
“Could smell worse,” said Locke, “but I think I’d have to spend a few days pissing
on everything to get there.”
“Stay alive until our supplies start to run low,” said Delmastro, “and you’ll drink
some things that’ll make this stench a happy memory. Now, usually I’d drop a ladder,
but it’s only three feet. I think you can manage. Come up slow; Captain Drakasha’s
got a sudden eagerness to have a word with you.”
“Does that offer include dinner?”
“You’re lucky it includes clothes, Ravelle. Get up here. Smallest first.”
Locke crawled past Jean and heaved himself up through the hatch, into the moderately
less stifling air of the orlop deck. Lieutenant Delmastro waited with eight of her
crewfolk, all armed and armored. Locke was seized from behind by a burly woman as
he stood up in the passageway. A moment later Jean was helped up and held by three
sailors.
“Right.” Delmastro seized Jean’s wrists and snapped a pair of blackened-steel manacles
around them. It was Locke’s turn next; she fit the cold restraints and fastened them
without gentleness. Locke gave the manacles a quick professional appraisal. They were
oiled and rust-free, and too tight to wiggle out of even if he had time to make some
painful adjustments to his thumbs.
“Captain’s finally had a chance to talk to some of your old crew at length,” said
Delmastro. “Mighty curious, is what I’d call her.”
“Ah, that’s wonderful,” said Locke. “Another fine chance to explain myself to someone.
How I do so love
explaining
myself.”
Their wary escort herded them along, and soon they were on deck in the very last light
of dusk. The sun was just passing beneath the western horizon, a bloodred eye closing
lazily under lids of faintly red cloud. Locke gulped the fresh air gratefully, and
was again struck by the impression of population that hung about the
Poison Orchid
. She was crammed with crew, men and women alike, bustling about below or working
on deck by the light of an increasing number of alchemical lanterns.
They had come up amidships. Something clucked and fluttered in a dark box—a chicken
coop, Locke realized—just forward of the mainmast. At least one bird was pecking the
mesh of its cage in agitation.
“I sympathize,” whispered Locke.
The
Orchid
crewfolk led him to the stern a few steps ahead of Jean. On the quarterdeck, just
above the companionway leading down to the stern cabins, a group of sailors once again
restrained Jean at some signal from Delmastro.
“This invitation’s for Ravelle only,” she said. “Master Valora can wait up here until
we see how this is to go.”
“Ah,” said Locke. “Will you be comfortable up here, Jerome?”
“ ‘Cold walls do not a prison make,’ ” recited Jean with a smile, “ ‘nor iron bands
a bondsman.’ ”
Lieutenant Delmastro looked at him strangely, and after a few seconds replied, “ ‘Bold
words from the tongues of the newly chained will fly—like sparks from flint, with
as much real heat, and as long a life.’ ”
“You know
The Ten Honest Turncoats
,” said Jean.
“As do you.
Very
interesting. And … completely beside the point.” She gave Locke a gentle push toward
the companionway. “Stay here, Valora. Lift a finger in an unfriendly fashion and you’ll
die where you stand.”
“My fingers will be on their best behavior.”
Down the companionway Locke stumbled, into a dark space nearly the twin of that on
the
Red Messenger
, though larger. If Locke’s quick estimate was correct, the
Poison Orchid
was half again as long as his former ship. There were little canvas-door cabins,
two to a side, and a sturdy witchwood door to the stern cabin, currently closed tight.
Ezri pushed Locke firmly aside and knocked on this door three times.
“It’s Ezri, with the question mark,” she shouted.
A moment later the door was unbolted from within, and Delmastro motioned for Locke
to precede her.
Captain Drakasha’s cabin, in contrast to “Ravelle’s,” showed every evidence of long,
comfortable habitation. Richly lit by faceted alchemical jewel-lamps in gold frames,
the space was piled with layers of tapestries and silk pillows. Several sea chests
supported a lacquered tabletop covered with empty dishes, folded maps, and navigational
instruments of obvious quality. Locke felt a pang when he saw his own chest, wide
open on the floor beside Drakasha’s chair.
The shutters had been drawn away from the stern windows. Drakasha sat before them,
her coat and armor discarded, holding a girl of three or four on her knees. Through
the windows, Locke could see the
Red Messenger
, shadowed in the growing darkness, crawling with the bobbing lights of what must
be repair parties.
Locke glanced to his left to see who’d opened the door, looked down, and found himself
meeting the gaze of a curly-haired boy who looked barely older than the girl held
by Zamira. Both children had her coal-black hair, and something of her features, but
their skin was somewhat lighter, like desert sand in shadow. Ezri tousled the boy’s
hair affectionately as she nudged Locke farther into the cabin, and the boy stepped
away shyly.
“There,” said Zamira, ignoring the newcomers for the moment and pointing out the stern
windows. “Can you see that, Cosetta? Do you know what that is?”
“Ship,” said the little girl.
“That’s right.” Zamira smiled.… No, Locke corrected himself, she positively smirked.
“Mommy’s
new
ship. From which Mommy has taken a lovely little pile of
gold
.”
“Gold,” said the little girl, clapping.
“Indeed. But look at the ship, love. Look at the ship. Can you tell mommy what those
tall things are? Those tall things that reach for the sky?”
“They … um … ha! No.”
“No, you don’t know, or no, you are being mutinous?”
“Moot nust!”
“Not on Mommy’s ship, Cosetta. Look again. Mommy’s told you what they are before,
hasn’t she? They reach for the sky, and they carry the sails, and they are the …”
“Mast,” said the girl.
“Masts. But close enough. And how many are there? How many
masts
does Mommy’s new little ship have? Count them for Mommy.”
“Two.”
“How clever you are! Mommy’s new ship has two masts, yes.” Zamira leaned close to
her daughter’s face, so that they were touching noses, and Cosetta giggled. “Now,”
said Zamira, “find me something else that comes in
two
.”
“Um …”
“Here in the cabin, Cosetta. Find Mommy
two
of something.”
“Um …”
The girl looked around, sticking most of her left hand into her mouth as she did so,
before seizing upon the pair of sabers that rested, in their scabbards, against the
wall just beneath the stern window.
“Sword,” said Cosetta.
“That’s right!” Zamira kissed her on the cheek. “Mommy has
two
swords. At least where you can see them, love. Now, will you be a good girl and go
above with Ezri? Mommy needs to speak to this man alone for just a bit. Paolo will
go, too.”
Ezri moved across the cabin to take Cosetta into her arms, and the little girl clung
to her with obvious pleasure. Paolo followed Ezri like a shadow, keeping the lieutenant
between himself and Locke, peeking out from behind her legs when he dared to look
at all.
“You sure you want to be alone back here, Captain?”
“I’ll be fine, Del. Valora’s the one I’d be worried about.”
“He’s manacled, with eight hands standing by.”
“Good enough, I think. And the
Red Messenger
’s men?”
“All under the forecastle. Treganne’s giving them the eyeball.”
“Fine. I’ll be along soon enough. Take Paolo and Cosetta off to Gwillem and let them
sit on the quarterdeck. Nowhere near the rails, mind.”
“Aye.”
“And tell Gwillem that if he tries to give them unwatered beer again I’ll cut his
heart out and piss in the hole.”
“I’ll quote that in full, Captain.”
“Off with the lot of you. If you give Ezri and Gwillem any trouble, loves, Mommy will
not
be pleased.”
Lieutenant Delmastro withdrew from the cabin, taking the two children and closing
the door behind her. Locke wondered how to approach this meeting. He knew next to
nothing about Drakasha; no weak spots to exploit, no prejudices to twist. Coming clean
about the various layers of deception he was working under was probably a mistake.
Best to act fully as Ravelle, for the time being.
Captain Drakasha picked up her sheathed sabers and turned her full regard upon Locke
for the first time. He decided to speak first, in a friendly fashion.
“Your children?”
“How
little
escapes the penetrating insight of the veteran intelligence officer.” She slid one
of her sabers out of its scabbard with a soft metallic hiss and gestured toward Locke
with it. “Sit.”
Locke complied. The only other chair in the cabin was next to the table, so he settled
into it and folded his manacled hands in his lap. Zamira eased herself into her own
chair, facing him, and set the drawn saber across her knees.
“Where I come from,” she said, “we have a custom concerning questions asked over a
naked blade.” She had a distinct, harmonious accent, one that Locke couldn’t place.
“Are you familiar with it?”
“No,” said Locke, “but I think the meaning is clear.”
“Good. Something is wrong with your story.”
“Nearly
everything
is wrong with my story, Captain Drakasha. I had a ship and a crew and a pile of money.
Now I find myself hugging a sack of potatoes in a bilge hold that smells like the
bottom of an unwashed ale cup.”
“Don’t hope for a lasting relationship with the potatoes. I just wanted you out of
the way while I spoke to some of the
Messenger
’s crewmen.”
“Ah. And how is my crew?”
“We both know they’re not your crew, Ravelle.”
“How is
the
crew?”
“Tolerably well, little thanks to you. They lost the nerve for a fight as soon as
they saw our numbers. Most of them seemed downright eager to surrender, so we took
the
Messenger
with nothing more than a few bruises and some hurt feelings.”
“Thank you for that.”
“We weren’t kind for your sake, Ravelle. In fact, you’re damned fortunate we were
even nearby. I like to cruise the wake of the summer’s-end storms. They tend to spit
out juicy morsels in no condition to refuse our hospitality.”
Drakasha reached down into Locke’s sea chest, shuffled the contents, and withdrew
a small packet of papers. “Now,” she said, “I want to know who Leocanto Kosta and
Jerome de Ferra are.”
“Cover identities,” said Locke. “False faces we used for our work back in Tal Verrar.”
“In the archon’s service?”
“Yes.”
“Nearly everything in here is signed ‘Kosta.’ Small letters of credit and reference … work
order for some chairs … receipt for clothing in storage. The only document with the
name Ravelle on it is this commission as a Verrari sea-officer. Should I be calling
you Orrin or Leocanto? Which one’s the false face?”
“You might as well just call me Ravelle,” said Locke. “I’ve been on the officer’s
list under that name for years. It’s how I drew my pay.”
“Are you Verrari-born?”
“Mainland. A village called Vo Sarmara.”
“What did you do before you served the archon?”
“I was what you’d call a patient man.”
“Is that a profession now?”
“I mean a master of scales and balances, for a merchant syndicate. I was the
patient man
because I did the
weighting
, you see?”
“Droll. A syndicate in Tal Verrar?”
“Yes.”
“So you surely worked for the Priori.”
“That was part of the, ah, original incentive for Stragos’ people to bring me into
their fold. After my usefulness as an agent in the syndicate hit a wall, I was given
new duties.”
“Hmm. I spoke at length with Jabril. Long enough to have no trouble believing that
your naval commission really is a fake. Do you have
any
experience under arms?”
“No formal military training, if that’s what you mean.”
“Curious,” said Drakasha, “that you had the authority to lay claim to a ship of war,
even a small one.”
“When we move slowly enough to avoid upsetting anyone, captains of intelligence have
excessive powers of requisition. Or at least we
did
. I suspect my remaining peers will be shackled with a bit of unwanted oversight because
of what I’ve done.”
“Tragic. Still … it’s curious again that when you were at my feet you had to ask my
name. I’d have thought that my identity would be obvious to anyone in Stragos’ service.
How long were you with him?”
“Five years.”
“So you came after the Free Armada was lost. Nonetheless, as a Verrari—”
“I had a vague description of you,” said Locke. “Little more than your
name and the name of your ship. I can assure you, had the archon ever thought to have
your portrait painted for our benefit, no man in his service would stay ignorant of
your looks.”