Authors: Scott Lynch
“Orchids,” hollered someone from a second-story window. “Orchids!”
Zamira acknowledged the drunken shout with a casual wave, and turned right at a muddy
crossroads. From the dark mouth of an alley a heavyset man stumbled, wearing nothing
but soiled breeches. He had the glassy, unfocused eyes of a Jeremite powder-smoker,
and in his right hand was a serrated knife the length and width of Jean’s forearm.
“Coin or suck,” said the man, threads of saliva dangling down his chin. “Don’t care
which. Got needs. Give us a—”
If he was oblivious to the fact that he was facing eight opponents, he wasn’t oblivious
to Rask knocking his blade hand aside and shoving him back into the alley by his neck.
What happened next took only a few seconds; Jean heard a wet gurgle, and then Rask
was stepping back out into the street, wiping one of his own knives on a rag. He threw
this rag into the alley behind him and hooked his thumbs into his belt. Ezri and Drakasha
seemed to think the incident not even worthy of comment, and they strolled on, casual
as temple-goers on Penance Day morning.
“Here we are,” said Ezri as they reached the top of another small hill. A wide, half-paved
square, its muddy sections crisscrossed by overlapping wagon tracks, was dominated
by a fat two-story building with a portico constructed around the chopped-off stern
facing of an old ship. Time, weather, and no doubt countless brawls had scuffed and
chipped its elaborate scrollwork, but people could be seen drinking and reveling behind
the second-story windows, in what would have been the great cabin. Where the rudder
had once been mounted was now a heavy double door, flanked by alchemical globes (the
round thick kind that were nearly impossible to break) in an approximation of stern
lanterns.
“The Tattered Crimson,” Ezri continued. “It’s either the heart of Port Prodigal or
the asshole, depending on your perspective.”
To the left of the entryway was a ship’s longboat, mounted to the building by heavy
wooden struts and iron chains. A few human arms and legs seemed to be sticking out
of it. As Jean watched, the doors to the Tattered Crimson slammed outward and a pair
of brutes emerged, carrying a limp old man between them. Without ceremony or pity,
they heaved him into the boat, where his arrival caused some incoherent shouting and
flailing of limbs.
“Now watch your step,” said Ezri, grinning. “Get too drunk to stand and they throw
you overboard. Some nights there’s ten or twenty people piled up in that boat.”
A moment later Jean was squeezing past those brutes, into the familiar smells of a
busy tavern at an hour closer to dawn than dinner. Sweat, scalded meat, puke, blood,
smoke, and a dozen kinds of bad ale and wine: the bouquet of the civilized nightlife.
The place looked to be constructed for a clientele that would be waging war not just
on one another but on the bar and pantry. The bar itself, at the far side of the room,
was enclosed from countertop to ceiling by iron panels, leaving only three narrow
windows through which the staff could serve drinks and food like archers firing from
murder-holes.
There were only floor tables down here, in the Jereshti fashion; low surfaces around
which men and women sat, knelt, or lay on scuffed cushions. In the cavelike fug of
the dimly lit room, they played cards and dice, smoked, drank, arm wrestled, argued,
and tried to laugh off the attention of the prowling heavies who were obviously looking
for candidates to toss into the boat outside.
Conversation wavered as Drakasha’s party appeared; cries of “Orchids!” and “Zamira’s
back!” could be heard. Drakasha nodded to the room at large and slowly turned her
gaze up to the second floor.
Stairs went up either side of the common room; at the sides, the second floor was
little more than a railed walkway. Above the bar and the entry, it expanded into wider
balconies with Therin-style tables and chairs. Jean presumed that the “high table”
was the one he’d glimpsed from the outside. A moment later Drakasha began to move
toward the stairs that led in that very direction.
A sudden current of excitement rose in the air: too many conversations halted absolutely;
too many eyes followed their passage. Jean cracked his knuckles and prepared himself
for things to get interesting.
Atop those stairs was a railed alcove backed by the windows overlooking the darkened
square from which they’d just come. Red silk banners hung in niches with alchemical
globes behind them, giving off a low, vaguely ominous rose-tinted light. Two wide
tables had been pushed together to accommodate a party of twelve, all clearly sailors
and toughs much, Jean realized to his own amusement, like themselves.
“Zamira Drakasha,” said the woman at the head of the table, rising from her chair.
She was young, roughly Jean’s own age, with the sun-browned skin and faint lines edging
her eyes that told of years spent on the water. Her sand-colored hair was drawn back
into three tails, and though shorter than Zamira she looked to outweigh her by about
two stone. Tough and round, this one, with a well-worn saber hilt visible at her belt.
“Rance,” said Drakasha, “
Chay
. It’s been a long night, love, and you know full well you’re sitting at my table.”
“That’s damn peculiar. It’s got our drinks on top of it, and our asses in its chairs.
You think it’s yours, maybe you should take it with you when you’re out of town.”
“When I’m away on my business, you mean. Fighting my ship, flying the red flag. You
know where the sea is, right? You’ve seen other captains coming and going—”
“I don’t have to break myself month in and month out, Drakasha. I just pick richer
targets in the first place.”
“You’re not hearing me, Chay. I really don’t care what sort of dog gnaws bones at
my place when I’m gone,” said Drakasha, “but when I come back I expect her to crawl
under the table where she belongs.”
Rance’s people exploded out of their chairs, and she raised a hand, grinning fiercely.
“Pull steel, you dusty cunt, and I’ll kill you fair in front of witnesses. Then the
Maintainers can haul your crew back to the docks for brawling and Ezri here can see
how your brats like the taste of
her
tits—”
“Show your hand, Rance. You think you’re fit to keep this spot?”
“Name the test and I’ll leave you weeping.”
“We’re going to have the house brutes on us—,” Jean whispered to Ezri.
“No,” she said, waving him to silence. “Calling out isn’t like plain brawling. Especially
not between captains.”
“For the table,” shouted Drakasha, reaching for a half-empty bottle, “all the Crimson
as our witness, the contest is drinks. First on her ass takes her sorry crew and moves
down to the floor.”
“I was hoping for something that’d take longer than ten minutes,” said Rance. “But
I accept. You be my guest with that bottle.”
Zamira looked around, then snatched two small clay cups of equal size from places
previously occupied by Rance’s crewfolk. She tossed their contents onto the tabletop,
then refilled them from the bottle. It was white Kodari brandy, Jean saw, rough as
turpentine, packing quite a sting. Rance’s crew backed up against the windows, and
Rance herself came around the table to stand beside Zamira. She lifted one of the
cups.
“One thing,” said Zamira. “You’re gonna take your first drink Syrune-fashion.”
“What the hell’s that?”
“Means you drink it through your fucking eyes.” Drakasha’s left arm was a blur as
she whipped her own cup from the tabletop and dashed its contents into Rance’s face.
Before Rance could even scream, Drakasha’s right arm came up just as fast. Her gloved
fist, rings and all, met Rance’s jaw with the sound of a cracking whip, and the younger
woman hit the floor so hard the cups atop the table rattled.
“Are you on your ass down there, love, or is that your head? Anybody think there’s
a difference?” Drakasha stood over Rance and slowly tipped the contents of the second
clay cup into her own mouth. She swallowed it all without flinching and tossed the
cup over her shoulder.
“You said it was gonna be—”
Before Rance’s angry crewman, probably her first mate, could finish his protest Locke
stepped forward with his hand upraised.
“Zamira kept her oath. The test
was
a drink, and your captain’s on her ass.”
“But—”
“Your captain should’ve had the wit to be more specific,” said Locke, “and she lost.
You going to take her oath back
for
her?”
The man grabbed Locke by the front of his tunic. The two of them scuffled briefly
and Jean darted forward, but before the situation went to hell Rance’s sailor was
hauled back, grudgingly but firmly, by his friends.
“Who the hell are you, anyway?” he shouted.
“Orrin Ravelle,” said Locke.
“Never fucking heard of you.”
“I think you’ll remember me, though.” Locke dangled a small leather pouch in front
of the man. “Got your purse, prickless.”
“You
motherfu
—”
Locke gave the purse a hard toss backward, and it landed somewhere down among the
hundred or so patrons watching the action on the balcony with eyes wide and mouths
open.
“Oops,”
said Locke, “but I’m sure you can rely on all the upstanding folks down there to
keep it safe for you.”
“Enough!” Zamira reached down, grabbed Rance by the collar, and hoisted her to a sitting
position. “Your captain called it and your captain lost.
Is she your captain
?”
“Yes,” said the man, scowling.
“Then keep her oath.” Zamira dragged Rance to the head of the stairs and knelt in
front of her. “Not such a very regal bitch after all, eh, Chay?”
Rance reared back to spit blood in Drakasha’s face, but the older captain’s slap was
faster, and the blood spewed out across the stairs.
“Two things,” said Zamira. “First, I’m calling the council for tomorrow. I’ll expect
to see you there at the usual place and time. Nod your silly head.”
Rance nodded, slowly.
“Second, I don’t have brats. I have a daughter and a son. And if you
ever
forget that again, I’ll carve your fucking bones into toys for them.”
With that, she heaved Rance down the stairs. By the time she landed in a heap at the
bottom, her chagrined crew was hurrying after her, under the triumphant stares of
Drakasha’s party.
“See you around … Orrin Ravelle,” said the purseless sailor.
“Valterro,” said Zamira sternly, “this was all business. Don’t make it personal.”
The man looked no happier, but he moved off with the rest of Rance’s crew.
“That bit about your children sounded very personal,” whispered Jean.
“So I’m a hypocrite,” muttered Drakasha. “You want to protest, you can take a drink
Syrune-fashion.” Zamira moved to the rail overlooking the main floor and raised her
voice to a shout. “Zacorin! You hiding down there somewhere?”
“Hiding’s the word, Drakasha,” came a voice from behind the windows of the armored
bar. “War over yet?”
“If you’ve got a cask of anything that doesn’t taste like pig sweat, send
it up. And some meat. And Rance’s bill. Poor dear needs all the help she can get.”
There was an outbreak of laughter across the floor. Rance’s crew, carrying her out
by her arms and legs, didn’t look even vaguely amused.
“So that’s that,” said Zamira, settling into the chair Rance had just vacated. “Make
yourselves comfortable. Welcome to the high table at the Tattered Crimson.”
“Well,” said Jean as he took a seat between Locke and Ezri, “did that go as you hoped?”
“Oh yeah.” Ezri smirked at Drakasha. “Yeah, I’d say our flag is
flown
.”
THEY DID their best to look relaxed and amused for the better part of an hour, helping
themselves to the Crimson’s mediocre dark ale and all the better liquors Rance’s crew
had left behind. Grease-blanketed duck was the dish of the evening; most of them treated
it as decoration, but Rask and Konar gradually brutalized it down to a pile of bones.
“So what do we do now?” asked Locke.
“Word’ll go out to all the usual vultures that we’re back in,” said Drakasha. “Less
than a day or two and they’ll be courting us. Liquor and rations will go first; always
easiest to sell. Nautical spares and stores we keep for ourselves. As for the silks
and finer things, those independent traders moored at the Hospital docks are our friends
in that regard. They’ll try to clean us out for fifteen to twenty percent of market
value. Good enough for us—then they haul it back across the sea and sell it at full
price with innocent smiles on their faces.”
“What about the
Messenger
?”
“When she shows up, the Shipbreaker will pay us a visit. He’ll offer us piss in a
clay bowl and we’ll talk him up to piss in a wooden jug. Then she’s his problem. She’s
worth maybe six thousand solari with her rigging intact; I’ll be lucky to take him
for anything near two. His crew will take her east and sell her to some eager merchant
for about four; undercutting his competition and carving a fat profit at the same
time.”
“Hell,” said Lieutenant Delmastro, “some of the ships on the Sea of Brass routes have
been taken and resold three or four times.”
“This Shipbreaker,” said Locke, feeling a scheme in the birthing, “I take it the fact
that his trade is also his name means he doesn’t have any competitors?”
“All dead,” said Delmastro. “The ugly and publicly instructive way.”
“Captain,” said Locke, “how long will all of this take? It’s nearly the end of the
month, and—”
“I’m well aware of what day it is, Ravelle. It takes as long as it takes. Maybe three
days, maybe seven or eight. While we’re here everyone on the crew gets at least one
chance at a day and night ashore, too.”
“I—”
“I haven’t forgotten the matter you’re concerned about,” Drakasha said. “I’ll bring
it to the council tomorrow. After that, we’ll see.”