Authors: Scott Lynch
“So with the, ah, plucking and sipping the nectar bit, where do we start?”
“Most worthwhile thing at hand is the ship’s purse,” said Drakasha. “Master keeps
it for expenses. Bribes and so forth. Finding it’s always a pain in the ass. Some
throw it overboard; others hide it somewhere dank and unlikely. We’ll probably have
to slap this Nera around for a few hours before he spits truth.”
“Damnation.” Behind them, Treganne let her patient slump to the deck
and began wiping her bloody hands on his breeches. “No good on this one, Captain.
I can see straight through to his lungs behind the wound.”
“He’s dead for sure?” said Locke.
“Well, heavens, I wouldn’t know, I’m just the fucking physiker. But I heard in a bar
once that dead is the
accepted
thing to be when your lungs are open to daylight,” said Treganne.
“Uh … yes. I heard the same thing. Look, will anyone else here die without your immediate
full attention?”
“Not likely.”
“Captain Drakasha,” said Locke, “Master Nera has something of a soft heart. Might
I take the liberty of suggesting a plan …?”
A few moments later, Locke returned to the waist, holding Antoro Nera by one arm.
The man’s hands had been bound behind his back. Locke gave him a good shove toward
Zamira, who stood with one saber unsheathed. Behind her, Treganne worked feverishly
over the corpse of the newly deceased sailor. The slashed and bloody tunic had been
disposed of, and a clean one drawn over the corpse’s chest. Only a small red spot
now marked the lethal wound, and Treganne gave every impression that the unmoving
form was still within her power to save.
Drakasha caught Nera and set her blade against his upper chest.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” she said, sliding the curved edge of her weapon
toward Nera’s unprotected neck. He whimpered. “Your ship’s badly out of trim. Too
much weight of gold. We need to find and remove the master’s purse as quick as we
can.”
“I, uh, don’t know exactly where it is,” said Nera.
“Right. And I can teach fish to fart fire,” said Drakasha. “You get one more chance,
and then I start throwing your injured overboard.”
“But … please, I was told—”
“Whoever told you anything wasn’t
me
.”
“I … I dont—”
“Scholar,” said Drakasha, “can you do anything for the man you’re working on?”
“He won’t be dancing anytime soon,” said Treganne, “but yes, he’ll pull through.”
Drakasha shifted her grip on Nera and held him by his tunic collar with her free hand.
She took two steps to her right and, barely looking, drove her saber down into the
dead sailor’s neck. Treganne flinched backward and gave the corpse’s legs a little
push to make it look as though they’d kicked. Nera gasped.
“Medicine is such an uncertain business,” said Drakasha.
“In my cabin,” said Nera. “A hidden compartment by the compass above my bed. Please … please
don’t kill any more of—”
“I didn’t, actually,” said Drakasha. She withdrew her saber from the corpse’s throat,
wiped it on Nera’s breeches, and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Your man died
a few minutes ago. My leech says she can save the rest of your injured without trouble.”
She spun Nera around, slashed the rope that bound his hands, and shoved him toward
Locke with a grin. “Return him to his people, Ravelle, and then kindly relieve his
secret compartment of its burden.”
“Your will, Captain.”
After that, they began taking the
Kingfisher
apart more eagerly than newlyweds tearing off layers of formal clothing in their
first moment of privacy. Locke felt his fatigue vanishing as he became absorbed in
what was essentially one vast robbery, for more physical material than he’d ever stolen
before in his life. He was passed from duty to duty among Orchids who laughed and
clowned with real spirit, but worked with haste and precision for all that.
First they snatched up anything portable and reasonably valuable—bottles of wine,
Master Nera’s formal wardrobe, bags of coffee and tea from the galley, and several
crossbows from the
Kingfisher
’s tiny armory. Drakasha herself appraised the ship’s collection of navigational instruments
and hourglasses, leaving Nera the bare minimum required to safely work his vessel
back to port.
Next, Utgar and the boatswain scoured the flute from stem to stern, using the surviving
scrub watch as mules to haul off stores and equipment of nautical use: alchemical
caulk, good sail canvas, carpenter’s tools, barrels of pitch, and loop after loop
of new rope.
“Good shit, hey,” said Utgar, as he weighed Locke down with about fifty pounds of
rope and a box of metal files. “Much too expensive in Port Prodigal. Always best to
get it at what we call the broadside discount.”
Last but not least came the
Kingfisher
’s cargo. All the main-deck hatch gratings were pulled, and a nearly incomprehensible
network of ropes and pulleys was rigged on and between the two ships. By noon, crates
and casks and oilcoth-wrapped bundles were being lighted along to the
Poison Orchid
. It was everything Nera had promised and more—turpentine, oiled witchwood, silks,
crates of fine yellow wine padded with sheepskins, and barrel after barrel of bulk
spices. The smell of cloves, nutmeg, and ginger filled the air; after an hour or two
of work at the hoists Locke was brown with a sludge that was half sweat and half powdered
cinnamon.
At the fifth hour of the afternoon Drakasha called a halt to the forcible
transfusion of wealth. The
Poison Orchid
rode lower in the gleaming water and the lightened flute rolled freely, hollowed
out like an insect husk about to fall from a spider’s jaws. Drakasha’s crew hadn’t
stripped her clean, of course. They left the Kingfishers their casks of water, salted
meat, cheap ale, and pink-piss ration wine. They even left a few crates and parcels
of valuables that were too deeply or inconveniently stowed for Drakasha’s taste—nonetheless,
the sack was thorough. Any land-bound merchant would have been well pleased to have
a ship unloaded at the dock with such haste.
A brief ceremony was held at the taffrail of the
Kingfisher
; Zamira blessed the dead of the two vessels in her capacity as a lay priestess of
Iono. Then the corpses went over the side, sewn into old canvas with Redeemer weapons
weighing them down. The Redeemers themselves were then thrown overboard without a
word.
“Ain’t disrespectful,” said Utgar when Locke whispered to him about this. “Far as
they believe, they get consecrated and blessed and all that fine stuff by their own
gods the moment they die. No hard feelings if you just tip the heathens over the side
afterward. Helpful thing to know if you ever have to kill a bunch of ’em again, hey?”
At last, the day’s long business was truly concluded; Master Nera and his crew were
released to tend to their own fortunes once again. While Drakasha’s archers kept watch
from their perches on the yardarms, the network of lines and fend-offs between the
two ships was pulled apart. The
Poison Orchid
hauled up her boats and loosed her sails. In minutes, she was making seven or eight
knots to the southwest, leaving the
Kingfisher
adrift in disarray behind her.
Locke had seen little of Jean all day, and both of them had seemed to work to studiously
preserve their separation. Just as Locke had thrown himself into manual labor, Jean
had remained with Delmastro on the quarterdeck. They didn’t come close enough to speak
again until the sun fell beneath the horizon, and the scrub watch was herded together
and bound for their initiation.
ALL THE new initiates and half the ship’s old company were on the Merry Watch, fueled
by rack after rack of the fine eastern wines they’d plucked from the
Kingfisher
. Locke recognized some of the labels and vintages. Stuff that wouldn’t sell in Camorr
for less than twenty crowns a bottle was being sucked down like beer, or poured into
the hair of celebrating men and women, or simply spilled on deck. The Orchids, men
and women alike,
were mixing eagerly with the ex-Messengers now. Dice games and wrestling matches and
song-circles had erupted spontaneously. Propositions spoken and unspoken were everywhere.
Jabril had vanished belowdecks with a crew-woman at least an hour before.
Locke took it all in from the shadows of the starboard side, just below the raised
quarterdeck. The starboard stairs weren’t flush with the rail; there was space enough
for a lean person to wedge comfortably between the two. “Ravelle” had been greeted
warmly and eagerly enough when he’d circulated on deck, but now that he’d found a
cozy exile nobody seemed to be missing him. In his hands was a large leather jack
full of blue wine that was worth its weight in silver, untouched.
Across the great mass of laughing, drinking sailors, Locke could make out Jean at
the ship’s opposite rail. While Locke watched, the shape of a woman, much shorter,
approached him from behind and reached out toward him. Locke turned away.
The water slipped past, a black gel topped with curls of faintly phosphorescent foam.
The
Orchid
was setting a good pace through the night. Laden, she yielded less than before to
the chop of the sea, and was parting these little waves like they were air.
“When I was a lieutenant apprentice,” said Captain Drakasha, “on my first voyage with
an officer’s sword, I lied to my captain about stealing a bottle of wine.”
She spoke softly. Startled, Locke looked around and saw that she was standing directly
over him, at the forward quarterdeck rail.
“Not just me,” she continued. “All eight of us in the apprentices’ berth. We ‘borrowed’
it from the captain’s private stores and should have been smart enough to pitch it
over the side when we’d finished.”
“In the … navy of Syrune, this was?”
“Her Resplendent Majesty’s Sea Forces of Syrune Eternal.” Drakasha’s smile was a crescent
of white against darkness, faint as the foam topping the waves. “The captain could
have had us whipped, or reduced in rank, or even chained up for formal trial on land.
Instead she had us strike down the royal yard from the mainmast. We had a spare, of
course. But she made us scrape the varnish off the one we’d taken down.… This is a
spar of oak, you know, ten feet long and thick as a leg. The captain took our swords
and said they’d be restored if and only if we ate the royal yard. Tip to tip, every
last splinter.”
“
Ate
it?”
“A foot and a quarter of sturdy oak for each of us,” said Drakasha. “How we did it
was our business. It took a month. We tried everything. Shaving it,
scraping it, boiling it, pulping it. We had a hundred tricks to make it palatable,
and we forced it down, a few spoonfuls or chips a day. Most of us got sick, but we
ate the yard.”
“Gods.”
“When it was over, the captain said she’d wanted us to understand that lies between
shipmates tear the ship apart, bit by bit, gnawing at it just as we’d gnawed the royal
yard down to nothing.”
“Ah.” Locke sighed and at last took a sip of his warm, excellent wine. “I take it
this means I’m due for a bit more dissection, then?”
“Come join me at the taffrail.”
Locke rose, knowing it wasn’t a request.
“I NEVER knew that dispensing justice could be so tiring,” said Ezri, appearing at
Jean’s right elbow as he stood staring out over the
Orchid
’s larboard rail. One of the moons was just starting to rise in the south, half a
silver-white coin peeking above the night horizon, as though lazily considering whether
it was worth rising at all.
“You’ve had a long day, Lieutenant.” Jean smiled.
“Jerome,” she said, reaching out to set a hand upon his right forearm, “if you call
me ‘lieutenant’ again tonight, I’ll kill you.”
“As you wish, Lieu … La … something-other-than-’Lieutenant’-that-starts-with-’Lieu,’
honest.… Besides, you already tried to execute me once this evening. Look how that
turned out.”
“Best way possible,” she said, now leaning against the rail beside him. She wasn’t
wearing her armor, just a thin tunic and a pair of calf-length breeches without hose
or shoes. Her hair was free, waves of dark curls rustling in the breeze. Jean realized
that she was putting most of her weight against the rail and trying hard not to show
it.
“Uh, you got a little too close to a few blades today,” he said.
“I’ve been closer. But you, now … you’re … you’re a very good fighter, do you know
that?”
“It’s been s—”
“Gods, how wretched was that? Of
course
you’re a good fighter. I meant to say something much wittier, honest.”
“Then consider it said.” Jean scratched his beard and felt a warm, welcome sort of
nervousness fluttering in his stomach. “We can both pretend. All of the, um, effortlessly
witty nonsense I’ve been practicing on the barrels in the hold for days has taken
flight, too.”
“Practicing, hmmm?”
“Yeah, well.… That Jabril, he’s a sophisticated fellow, isn’t he? Need a bit of conversation
to catch his attention, won’t I?”
“What?”
“Didn’t you know I only fancied men?
Tall
men?”
“Oooh, I kicked you to the deck once, Valora, and I’m about to—”
“Ha! In your condition?”
“My
condition
is the only thing saving your life at the moment.”
“You wouldn’t dare heap abuse on me in front of half the crew—”
“Of course I would.”
“Well, yes. True.”
“Look at this lovely, noisy mess. I don’t think anyone would even notice if I set
you on fire. Hell, down in the main-deck hold there’s couples going at it packed tighter
than spears in the arms lockers. You want real peace and quiet any time tonight, closest
place you might find it is two or three hundred yards off one of the bows.”