Authors: Scott Lynch
“It’s my fault that these men nearly died aboard the
Messenger
. They were my crew, and I should have looked after them better. I’d like the chance
to do that now. I want … the first seat on the lead boat.”
“You expect me to let you command the attack?”
“Not command,” said Locke. “Just go up the side first. Whatever’s there to bleed us,
let it bleed me first. Maybe I can spare whoever comes up next.”
“That means me as well,” said Jean, placing a hand on Locke’s shoulder, somewhat protectively.
“I go where he goes.”
Gods bless you, Jean, thought Locke.
“If it’s your ambition to stop a crossbow bolt,” said Drakasha, “I won’t say no.”
She seemed a bit taken aback, however, and she gave the tiniest fraction of an approving
nod to Locke as the crowd began to break up and head forward for their weapons.
“Captain!” Lieutenant Delmastro stepped forward, her hands and forearms covered in
soot from the smoke barrels. She glanced at Locke and Jean as she spoke. “Just who
is
leading the cutting-out boats anyway?”
“Free-for-all, Del. I’m sending one Orchid per boat to hold them; what the scrub watch
does after they climb the sides is their business.”
“I want the boats.”
Drakasha stared at her for several seconds, and said nothing. She was wreathed in
gray smoke from the waist down.
“I had nothing to do when we took the
Messenger
, Captain,” Delmastro said hastily. “In fact, I haven’t had any real fun with a prize
for weeks.”
Drakasha flicked her gaze over Jean and frowned. “You crave an indulgence.”
“Aye. But a useful one.”
Drakasha sighed. “You have the boats, Del. Mind you, Ravelle gets his wish.”
Translation: If he takes an arrow for anyone, make sure it’s you, thought Locke.
“You won’t regret it, Captain. Scrub watch! Arm yourselves and meet me at the waist!”
Delmastro dashed up the quarterdeck stairs, past Utgar, who was leading the Drakasha
children along with one clinging tightly to either hand.
“You’re a bold and stupid fellow, Ravelle,” said Jabril. “I think I almost like you
again.”
“… at least he can fight, we know that much,” Locke heard one of the other men saying.
“You should’ve seen him take care of the guard the night we got the
Messenger
. Pow! One little punch folded him right up. He’ll show us a thing or two this morning.
You wait.”
Locke was suddenly very glad he’d already pissed everything he had to piss.
At the waist, an older crew-woman stood watch on small barrels packed full of the
promised hatchets and sabers. Jean drew out a pair of hatchets, hefted them, and frowned
as Locke hesitated before the barrels.
“You have any idea what you’re doing?” he whispered.
“None whatsoever,” said Locke.
“Take a saber and try to look comfortable.”
Locke drew a saber and gazed at it as though immensely satisfied.
“Anyone with a belt,” shouted Jean, “grab a second weapon and tuck it in. You never
know when you or someone else might need it.”
As half a dozen men took his advice, he sidled up to Locke and whispered again. “Stay
right beside me. Just … keep up with me and stand tall. Maybe they won’t have bows.”
Lieutenant Delmastro returned to their midst, wearing her black leather vest and bracers,
as well as her knife-packed weapon belt. Locke noticed that the curved handguards
of her sabers were studded with what looked like jagged chips of Elderglass.
“Here, Valora.” She tossed a leather fighting collar to Jean and held her tightly
tailed hair up to leave her neck fully exposed. “Help a girl out.”
Jean placed the collar around her neck and clasped it behind her head. She tugged
it once, nodded, and put up her arms. “Listen up! Until we make an unfriendly move,
you’re wealthy passengers and land-sucking snobs, sent out in the boats to save your
precious skins.”
A pair of crewmen were making the rounds of the scrub watch, handing out fine hats,
brocaded jackets, and other fripperies. Delmastro seized a silk parasol and shoved
it into Locke’s hands. “There you go, Ravelle. That might deflect some harm.”
Locke shook the folded parasol over his head with exaggerated belligerence, and got
some nervous laughter in exchange.
“Like the captain said, it’ll be one Orchid per boat, to make sure they come back
even if you don’t,” said Delmastro. “I’ll take Ravelle and Valora with me, in the
little boat you donated from the
Messenger
. Plus you and you.” She pointed to Streva and Jabril. “Whatever else happens, we’re
first to the side and first up.”
Oscarl, the boatswain, appeared with a small party of assistants carrying lines and
blocks to begin rigging hoisting gear.
“One thing more,” said Delmastro. “If they ask for quarter, give it. If they drop
their weapons, respect it. If they carry on fighting, slaughter them where they fucking
stand. And if you start to feel sorry for them, just remember what signal we had to
fly to get them to lend aid to a ship on fire.”
FROM THE water, the illusion of that fire seemed complete to Locke’s eyes. All the
smoke barrels were going now; the ship trailed a black-and-gray cloud that all but
enveloped its quarterdeck. The figure of Zamira appeared now and again, her spyglass
briefly catching the sun before she vanished back into the darkness. A team of crewmen
had rigged small pumps and canvas hoses amidships (at the rail, where they could best
be seen), and they were directing streams of water at the cloud of smoke, though actually
doing nothing but washing the deck.
Locke sat at the bow of the little boat, feeling vaguely ridiculous with his parasol
in hand and a cloth-of-silver jacket draped over his shoulders like a cape. Jean and
Jabril shared the forward rowing bench, Streva and Lieutenant Delmastro were behind
them, and a very small crewman named
Vitorre—little more than a boy—crouched in the stern to take over from them when they
boarded the flute.
That ship, her curiously round and wallowing hull-curves now plainly visible, was
angled somewhat away from them to the north. Locke estimated that it would cross paths
with the
Poison Orchid
, or very nearly so, in about ten minutes.
“Let’s start rowing for her,” said Delmastro. “They’ll expect it by now.”
Their boat and the two larger ones had been keeping station about a hundred yards
southeast of the
Orchid
. As the four rowers in the lead boat began to pull north, Locke saw the others catch
their cue and follow.
They bobbed and slipped across the foot-high waves. The sun was up and its heat was
building; it had been half past the seventh hour of the morning when they’d left the
ship. The oars creaked rhythmically in their locks; now they were abreast with the
Orchid
, and the newcomer was about half a mile to their northeast. If the flute caught wind
of the trap and tried to flee to the north, the ship would loose canvas to fly after
it. If it tried to flee south, however, it would be up to the boats to slip into its
path.
“Ravelle,” said Delmastro, “at your feet, the breaching shears. You see them?”
Locke looked down. Tucked away beneath his seat was an ugly-looking hinged device
with a pair of wooden handles. These handles worked a metal jaw.
“I think so.”
“Bows aren’t our biggest problem. The most trouble they can give us is if they rig
razor nets against boarding; we’ll slash ourselves to pieces trying to climb on deck.
If those nets are rigged, you
must
use those shears to cut a slit for us to get in.”
“Or die trying,” he said. “I think I get it.”
“But the good news is, rigging razor nets is a pain in the ass. And they won’t be
up at all if they’re expecting to send out boats and receive passengers. If we can
just get close enough before we tip our hand, they won’t have time to use them.”
“What’s the signal to tip our hand?”
“You won’t miss it. Trust me.”
ZAMIRA DRAKASHA stood at the starboard quarterdeck rail, taking a break from the smoke.
She studied the approaching flute through her glass; there was elaborate ornamentation
on the stubby forepeak, and a somewhat
whimsical gold-and-black paint scheme along her tall sides. That was agreeable; if
she was well maintained she was likely to be carrying a respectable cargo and a bit
of coin.
A pair of officers stood at the bow, studying her ship through their own glasses.
She waved in what she hoped was an encouraging fashion, but received no response.
“Well, fine,” she muttered. “You’ll be rendering your courtesies soon enough.”
The small dark shapes of crew rushed about on the flute, now just a quarter mile distant.
Her sails were shuddering, her hull elongating in Zamira’s view—were they running?
No, just killing momentum, turning a point or two to starboard, aiming to get close
but not
too
close. She could see a pump-and-hose team at work amidships, shooting a stream of
water upward to wet the flute’s lower sails. Very sensible, when coming anywhere near
a fire at sea.
“Signal party,” she said, “stand ready.”
“Aye, Captain,” came a chorus of voices from within the smoke-shrouded portion of
the quarterdeck.
Her own boats were cutting the waves between the two ships. There was Ravelle in the
lead with his parasol, looking a bit like a thin silver mushroom with a soft white
cap. And there was Valora, and there was Ezri … damn it. Ezri’s request had given
her little choice but to acquiesce or look foolish in front of the scrub watch. There’d
be words for that little woman … if the gods blessed Zamira enough to send her lieutenant
back alive.
She studied the flute’s officers, who’d moved from the bow to the larboard rail. Wide
fellows, it seemed, a bit overdressed for the heat. Her eyes were not what they’d
been twenty-five years ago.… Were they prodding one another, looking more intently
through their glasses?
“Captain?” asked a member of the signal party.
“Hold,” she said. “Hold …” Every second closed the gap between the
Orchid
and her victim. They’d slowed and turned, but leeway would bring them closer still … closer
still. One of them pointed, then grabbed the other by the shoulder and pointed again.
Their glasses flew up in unison.
“Ha!” Zamira cried. Not a chance they could slip away now. She felt new zeal lending
strength to her every step and motion; she felt half her years seem to fall from her
shoulders.
Gods
, the moment they realized just how fucked they were was always sweet. She slammed
her spyglass shut, snatched her speaking trumpet from the deck, and hollered across
the length of the ship.
“Archers ready at the tops! All hands on deck! All hands on deck and man the starboard
rail! Stifle smoke barrels!”
The
Poison Orchid
shuddered; seven dozen hands were pounding up the ladders, surging out of the hatchways,
armed and armored, screaming as they came. Archers stepped out from behind the masts,
knelt on their fighting platforms, and nocked arrows to their gleaming bows.
Zamira didn’t need her glass to see the shapes of officers and crew running about
frantically on the flute’s deck.
“Let’s give ’em something that’ll really make ’em piss their breeches,” she shouted,
not bothering with the speaking trumpet.
“Hoist our crimson!”
The three yellow pennants streaming above the quarterdeck shuddered, then plummeted
straight down into the gray haze. From out of the last of the black and boiling smoke
rose a broad red banner, bright as the morning sun looming above a storm.
“WITH A will,” shouted Lieutenant Delmastro, “with a will!” As the bloodred flag rose
to its full prominence above the stern of the
Orchid
and the first of the horde of maniacally cheering crewfolk began to crowd her starboard
rail, the three boats surged across the waves.
Locke shed his parasol and jacket, tossing them overboard before remembering that
they were worth quite a bit of money. He breathed in excited gasps, glancing over
his shoulder at the fast-approaching side of the flute, a sheer wooden surface that
loomed like a floating castle. Dear gods, he was going into battle. What the fuck
was the
matter
with him?
He bit the insides of his cheeks for concentration and held on to the gunwales with
white knuckles.
Damn
it, this was no grand gesture. He couldn’t afford this. He breathed deep to steady
himself.
Locke Lamora was small, but the Thorn of Camorr was larger than any of this. The Thorn
couldn’t be touched by blade or spell or scorn. Locke thought of the Falconer, bleeding
at his feet. He thought of the Gray King, dead beneath his knife. He thought of the
fortunes that had run through his fingers, and he smiled.
Steadily, carefully, he drew his saber and began to wave it in the air. The three
boats were nearly abreast now, slashing white triangles of wake on the sea, a minute
from their target. Locke meant to hit it wearing the biggest lie of his life like
a costume. He might be dead in a few moments, but until then, by the gods, he was
the Thorn of Camorr. He was Captain Orrin
fucking
Ravelle.
“Orchids! Orchids!” He made a statue of himself at the bow of the boat, thrusting
with his saber as though he meant to ram the flute and punch a hole in her side all
by himself. “Pull for the prize! Pull for yourselves! Follow me, Orchids!
Richer and cleverer than everyone else
!”
The
Poison Orchid
slipped ahead of the last of her smoke, streaming gray lines from her quarterdeck,
as though evading the grasp of some godlike ghostly hand. The teeming crewfolk at
her rail cheered again, and then fell silent together. The ship’s sails began to flutter.
Drakasha was tacking, with haste, to bring the ship sharply around to starboard. If
she pulled it off she would snug up, on the larboard tack, right alongside the flute
at knife-fighting distance.