Authors: Scott Lynch
“But—”
“Drakasha, this is intolerable!”
Locke and Zamira whirled, once again in unison, to find Scholar Treganne standing
at the head of the companionway. She stepped toward them, limping without the support
of her cane, and in her outthrust arms wriggled a chitinous black nightmare, multilegged
and gleaming in the lantern light. A spider the size of a cat. She held it belly outward,
and its gleaming fangs twitched indignantly.
“Dear gods, it certainly is,” said Locke.
“Treganne, what the hell is Zekassis doing out of her cage?”
“Your lieutenant has commenced an assault on the partition between our quarters,”
hissed Treganne. “Intolerable noise and commotion! She was lucky to shatter only one
cage with all of her knocking about, and luckier still that I was there to restrain
this blameless lady—”
“So … wait, you keep that thing in your quarters?” Locke was relieved to discover
that it hadn’t been prowling the ship, but only marginally so.
“Where do you think woundsilk comes from, Ravelle? Quit flinching; Zekassis is a delicate
and timid creature.”
“Treganne,” said Drakasha, “as a physiker, you must be familiar with the courtship
habits of the adult human female.”
“Yes, but six feet from my head is an insufferable intrusion—”
“Treganne, in my opinion, interrupting Ezri at the moment would be an insufferable
intrusion. The quartermaster’s compartment across the passage is open. Fetch the carpenter
to give Zek temporary accommodations, and pitch your hammock in Gwillem’s space.”
“I shall remember this indignity, Drakasha—”
“Yes, for approximately ten minutes, until some new vexation arises to claim your
full attention.”
“Should Delmastro do herself some injury through her exertions,” said Treganne primly,
“she may find another physiker to serve her needs. And I daresay that she may use
her own abdomen to spin silk for her bandages—”
“I’m sure Ezri’s abdomen is otherwise occupied, Scholar. Please find someone to build
that thing a home for the night. You won’t need to say much to convince them of your
urgency.”
As Treganne stomped off in a huff with her delicate and timid creature waving its
legs in protest, Locke turned back to Zamira with one eyebrow raised.
“Where did you ever—”
“The punishment for insolence to the Nicoran royal family is to be hung out to starve
in an iron cage. We were in Nicora doing a bit of smuggling; Treganne was hanging
there doing a bit of dying. Most of the time I don’t regret cutting her down.”
“Well. What do you say to my—”
“Mad proposal?”
“Zamira, I don’t need you to sail into Tal Verrar harbor. Just give me something to
buy another few months of Stragos’ indulgence. Sack a ship or two near Tal Verrar.
Quick and easy work. You know Jerome and I will be the first over the side for you.
Just … let them run for the city and spread a bit of panic. Then send us in one night
by boat, let us do our business, and we’ll be back with a better idea of how to turn
the situation—”
“Attack ships flying the Verrari flag, then get close enough to the city to let you
slip in by boat? Wait at anchor with a five thousand solari bounty on my head—”
“Now
that
is an injustice, Zamira, whatever else I’ve done to merit suspicion. If Jerome and
I merely wanted to slip back to Tal Verrar, why would we have risked our necks in
your attack this morning? And if I wanted to continue deceiving you or spying on you,
why didn’t I just play along with your conclusion that we were agents of the Priori?
“Jerome and I quarreled this morning. If you spoke to Jabril before you pulled me
out of your hold, you must know that I’m a divine of the Thirteenth, the Crooked Warden.
You’re … our people, more or less. Our kind. It’s a matter of propriety. Jerome insisted
that we tell you the truth, that we needed you as willing allies and not as dupes.
I’m ashamed to say that I was too angry to agree. But he was right, and it’s not just
fucking sentiment, it’s hard truth. I don’t think Jerome and I can pull this off unless
you aid us with full knowledge of what we’re up to. And if you can’t or won’t do that,
I think you’ve got a hell of a mess coming your way. Soon.”
Drakasha settled her right hand on the pommel of one of her sabers and closed her
eyes, looking tired and vexed.
“Before anything else,” she said at last, “apart from all other considerations, we
need to put in at Port Prodigal. I have cargo to sell, stores to buy, a prize to dispose
of, and crew to meet up with. We’re several days out, and will be several days there.
I will think on what you’ve said. One way or another, I’ll give you an answer after
we’ve done our business there.”
“Thank you.”
“So it’s Leocanto, then?”
“Just keep calling me Ravelle,” said Locke. “Easier for everyone.”
“So be it. You’re on the Merry Watch and you won’t be shifted back to duty watches
until tomorrow afternoon. I suggest you make good use of the night.”
“Well.” Locke glanced down at his leather cup of blue wine, suddenly thinking that
maybe he could do with a few more, and perhaps a dice game to lose himself in for
a few hours. “If the gods are kind I already have. Good night, Captain Drakasha.”
He left her alone at the taffrail, silently studying the monster that lurked in the
Orchid
’s wake.
“DID THAT hurt?” whispered Ezri, tracing a finger across the sweat-slick skin above
Jean’s ribs.
“Did it hurt? Gods above, woman, no, that was—”
“I don’t mean that.” She gave him a firm poke in the scar that arced across his abdomen
beneath his right breast.
“That.”
“Oh, that. No, it was wonderful. Someone came after me with a pair of Thieves’ Teeth.
Felt like a warm breeze on a fine spring day. I loved every second of—oof!”
“Ass!”
“Where did you get such sharp elbows? You grind those things against a whetstone,
or—oof!”
Ezri lay on top of Jean on the demi-silk hammock that took up most of the space in
her compartment. It was just barely long enough for him to lie with one arm above
his head (brushing the interior bulkhead of the ship’s starboard side), and he could
have spanned its width between his outstretched arms. An alchemical trinket the size
of a coin provided a faint silver light. Ezri’s witchwood-dark curls were touched
with fey highlights; scattered strands gleamed like threads of spider silk in moonlight.
He ran his hands through that damp forest of hair, massaged her warm scalp with his
fingernails, and she let her muscles go slack with a gratifying moan of relaxation.
The motionless air in the compartment was thick with sweat and the trapped heat of
their first endless, frantic hour together. The place was also, Jean noticed for the
first time, utterly wrecked. Their clothes were scattered in purest chaos. Ezri’s
weapons and few possessions littered the deck like
navigational hazards. A small net containing a few books and scrolls hung from a ceiling
beam and tilted toward the compartment door, indicating that the whole ship was heeled
over to larboard.
“Ezri,” he muttered, staring at the stiffened canvas partition that formed their left-hand
“wall.” A pair of large feet and a pair of small feet had given it a serious denting.
“Ezri, whose cabin did we nearly kick our way into a little while ago?”
“Oh … Scholar Treganne’s. Who told you to stop doing that to my hair? Oh, much better.”
“Will she be pissed off?”
“More so than usual?” Ezri yawned and shrugged. “She’s free to find a lover of her
own and kick it back whenever she pleases. I’m too preoccupied to be diplomatic.”
She kissed Jean’s neck, and he shivered. “Besides. Night hasn’t nearly run its course
yet. We may yet kick the whole damn thing down if I have my way, Jerome.”
“Then it’s your way we’ll have,” said Jean, gently shifting the weight of her body
until they were lying on their sides, face-to-face. He ran his hands as carefully
as he could over the stiff bandages on her upper arms, the only thing she couldn’t
in good sense take off. His hands moved to her cheeks, and then to her hair. They
kissed for the sort of endless moment that only exists between lovers whose lips are
still new territory to each other.
“Jerome,” she whispered.
“No. Do something for me, Ezri. In private. Never call me that.”
“Why not?”
“Call me my real name.” He kissed her neck, put his lips to one of her ears, and whispered
into it.
“Jean …,” she repeated.
“Gods, yes. Say that again.”
“Jean Estevan Tannen. I like that.”
“Yours and yours alone,” Jean whispered.
“Something in return,” she said. “Ezriane Dastiri de la Mastron. Dame Ezriane of the
House of Mastron. Nicora.”
“Really? You have an estate or something?”
“Doubt it. Spare daughters who run away from home don’t tend to receive holdings.”
She kissed him again, then ruffled his beard with her fingertips. “In fact, with the
letter I left Mother and Father, I’m sure I was disinherited at the best possible
speed.”
“Gods. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” She moved her fingers down to his chest. “These things happen. You keep
moving. You find things here and there that help you forget.”
“You do indeed,” he whispered, and then they were too busy to talk for a good long
while.
LOCKE WAS pulled out of his vivid thicket of dreams by a number of things: the rising
heat of day, the pressure of three cups of wine in his bowels, the moans of the hungover
men around him, and the sharp prick of claws from the heavy little creature sleeping
on the back of his neck.
Struck by a sudden foggy memory of Scholar Treganne’s spider, he gasped in horror
and rolled over, clutching at whatever was clinging to him. He blinked several times
to clear the veil of slumber from his eyes, and found himself struggling not with
a spider but with a kitten, narrow-faced and black-furred.
“The hell?” Locke muttered.
“Mew,” the kitten retorted, locking gazes with him. It had the expression common to
all kittens, that of a tyrant in the becoming.
I was comfortable, and you dared to move
, those jade eyes said.
For that you must die
. When it became apparent to the cat that its two or three pounds of mass were insufficient
to break Locke’s neck with one mighty snap, it put its paws on his shoulders and began
sharing its drool-covered nose with his lips. He recoiled.
“That’s Regal,” said someone to Locke’s left.
“Regal? No, it’s ridiculous.” Locke tucked the kitten under his arm like a dangerous
alchemical device. Its fur was thin and silky, and it began to purr noisily. The man
who’d spoken was Jabril; Locke raised his eyebrows when he saw that Jabril was lying
on his back, stark naked.
“His name,” said Jabril. “Regal. He’s got that white spot on his throat. And a wet
nose, right?”
“The very one.”
“Regal. You been adopted, Ravelle. Ain’t that ironic?”
“My life’s ambition realized at last.” Locke glanced around the half-empty undercastle.
Several of the new Orchids were snoring loudly; one or two were crawling to their
feet, and at least one was sleeping contentedly in a pool of his own vomit. Or so
Locke assumed. Jean was nowhere to be seen.
“And how was your evening, Ravelle?” Jabril pushed himself up on both elbows.
“Virtuous, I think.”
“My condolences.” Jabril smiled. “You ever met Malakasti from the Blue
watch? Got the sorta red hair and the daggers tattooed on her knuckles? Gods, I don’t
think she’s human.”
“You vanished early from the party, I’ll say that.”
“Yeah. She had some demands. And some friends.” Jabril massaged his temples with his
right hand. “That boatswain from Red watch, fellow with no fingers on his left hand.
Had no idea they taught gods-fearing Ashmiri lads them sorts of tricks. Whew.”
“Lads? I didn’t know you, ah, stalked that particular quarry.”
“Yeah, well, seems I’ll try anything once.” Jabril grinned. “Or five or six times,
as it turns out.” He scratched his belly and seemed to become aware of his lack of
clothes for the first time. “Hell. I remember owning breeches as recently as yesterday.…”
Locke emerged into sunlight a few minutes later with Regal still tucked under his
arm. As Locke stretched and yawned, the cat did the same, attempting to wriggle out
of Locke’s grasp and presumably climb back atop his head. Locke held the tiny fellow
up and stared at him.
“I’m not getting attached to you,” he said. “Find someone else to share your drool
with.” Well aware that any mistreatment of the little fellow might get him thrown
over the side, he set the kitten down and nudged him with a bare foot.
“You sure you’re authorized to give orders to that cat?” Locke turned to find Jean
standing on the forecastle steps, just finishing pulling a tunic on. “Gotta be careful.
He might be a watchmate.”
“If he acknowledges any rank, I think he puts himself somewhere between Drakasha and
the Twelve.” Locke stared up at Jean for several seconds. “Hi.”
“Hello …”
“Look, there’s a lot of tedious ‘I was an ass’ sort of conversation to stumble through,
and I’m still feeling a bit victimized by that blue wine, so let’s just assume—”
“I’m sorry,” said Jean.
“No, that’s my job.”
“I meant … we really found our jagged edges again, didn’t we?”
“If there’s one thing a battle isn’t, it’s calming on the nerves. I don’t blame you
for … what you said.”
“We can think of something,” said Jean, quietly and urgently. “Something together.
I know you’re not … I didn’t mean to insult your …”
“I deserved it. And you were right. I spoke to Drakasha last night.”
“You did?”
“I told her.” Locke grimaced, stretched again, used the motion to cover a series of
hand signals. Jean followed, his eyebrows rising.
Didn’t mention Bondsmagi, Sinspire, Camorr, real names. All else, truth
.