Authors: Scott Lynch
“A few minutes?” Jerome grinned. “Tsk, Ezri, when did you become such a pessimist?”
“Now,” she said, wiping the smile from his face. Chagrined, he helped her to her feet.
A moment later, the door to her cabin clicked shut, leaving Zamira alone with her
family in one of the quiet interludes that were so damnably rare. For a few brief
moments every night, she could imagine that her ship was traveling neither to nor
from danger, and she could imagine herself more mother than captain, alone with the
ordinary concerns of her children—
“Mommy,” said Paolo without any warning, “I want to learn how to fight with a sword.”
Zamira couldn’t help herself; she stared at him for several seconds, and then cracked
up laughing. Ordinary? Gods, how could any child born to this life be anything resembling
ordinary?
“Sword,” hollered Cosetta, possible future king of the Seven Marrows. “Sword! Sword!”
“EZRI, I—”
He saw the slap coming, but it never occurred to him for an instant to try to prevent
the blow from landing. She put all of her muscle into it, which was saying something,
and tears blurred Jean’s vision.
“Why didn’t you
tell
me?”
“Tell you—”
She was sobbing now, but her next punch landed on his right arm with undiminished
force.
“Ow,” he said. “What? What?”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
It was almost a shout; he spread his hands to catch her fists. A punch from her to
the ribs or solar plexus and he’d feel it for hours.
“Ezri, please. Tell you what?” He knelt on the narrow floor of her compartment, kissing
her fingertips while she tried to yank her hands back. At last he let her, and knelt
before her, arms lowered.
“Ezri, if you need to hit me, then by the gods hit me. If that’s what you need, I
won’t fight you for a second. Not ever. Just … tell me what you want.” She balled
her fists, and Jean braced himself for another swing, but she sank to her knees and
wrapped her arms around his neck. Her tears were hot on his cheeks.
“How could you not tell me?” she whispered.
“Anything you want to know, I’ll tell you now, just—”
“The poison, Jean.”
“Oh,” he moaned, slumping sideways against the rear wall of the cabin. She slid with
him. “Oh,
shit
.”
“You selfish
bastard
, how could you not—”
“Drakasha told the council of captains our story,” Jean said numbly. “You were there
to hear it.”
“From her, not you! How could you do that to me?”
“Ezri, please, it’s—”
“You are the only thing,” she whispered through the iron grip of her embrace, “the
only thing on this whole fucking
ocean
that’s mine, Jean Tannen. I don’t own this ship. Hell, I don’t own this cabin. I
don’t have a buried fucking treasure. I have no family and no title, not anymore.
And then I finally got to take something in return—”
“And it turns out I have … one significant flaw.”
“We can do something,” she said. “We can find someone. Physikers, alchemists—”
“Tried, Ezri. Alchemists and poisoners. We need the antidote from Stragos, or an actual
sample of his poison from which to create one.”
“And didn’t I deserve to know? What if you’d—”
“Dropped dead in here one night? Ezri, what if a Redeemer had put his sword through
my skull, or the crew had just murdered me on the day we met?”
“That’s not you,” she said. “That’s not how someone like you dies. I know, I just
know—”
“Ezri, you’ve seen every one of my scars. You know I’m not—”
“This is
different
,” she said. “This is something you can’t just fight.”
“Ezri, I
am
fighting it. I have been fighting it, every single day since the archon put the fucking
thing in me. Leocanto and I count the days, do you
understand? I would lie awake at night the first few weeks, and I was sure I could
feel it, doing something in me.” He gulped, and felt his own tears pouring down his
face. “Look, when I’m in here it doesn’t exist, understand? When I’m with you I can’t
feel it. I don’t
care
about it. This is … it’s like a different world. How could I tell you? How could
I ruin that?”
“I would kill him,” she whispered. “Stragos. Gods, if he was here right now I’d cut
his fucking throat—”
“I’d help. Believe me—”
She released her arms from around his neck and they knelt there in the semidarkness,
staring at each other.
“I love you, Jean,” she whispered at last.
“I love you, Ezri.” Saying it was like allowing some sudden release of pressure behind
his heart; it felt like breathing in at last after ages spent underwater. “You’re
like no one else I’ve ever met.”
“I can’t let you die,” she said.
“It’s not you.… You cant—”
“I can do what I damn well please,” she said. “I can get you to Tal Verrar. I can
buy you time to get what you need from Stragos. I can help you kick his ass.”
“Ezri,” said Jean, “Drakasha’s right. If I can’t get what I need from him … taking
Stragos down is more important—”
“
Don’t
say it.”
“I’ll do it,” he said. “It only makes sense. Gods, I don’t want to, but if I have
no choice I’ll trade myself for him.”
“Damn you,” she whispered, and faster than he could react she leapt to her feet, seized
him by the front of his tunic, and slammed him against the starboard bulkhead. “You
will not! Not if we beat him, Jean Tannen. Not if we
win
.”
“But if I have no choice—”
“Make a new choice, you son of a bitch.” She pinned him to the bulkhead with a kiss
that was pure alchemy, and his hands found their way down her tunic, down to her breeches,
where he unhitched her weapons belt with as much gratuitous fondling of the areas
not covered by it as he could manage.
She took the belt from his hands and flung it against one of the stiffened canvas
walls, where it struck with a clattering racket and slid to the floor. “If there is
no way, make a way, Jean Tannen. Losers don’t fuck in this particular cabin.”
He picked her up, making a seat for her from his crossed arms, and whirled her around
so that her back was against the bulkhead and her feet
were dangling. He kissed her breasts through her tunic, grinning at her reaction.
He stopped to put his head against her chest; felt the rapid flutter of her heart
beneath his left cheek.
“I would have told you,” he whispered. “Somehow.”
“Somehow, indeed. ‘Man,’ ” she said, “ ‘What a mouse he is made by conversation—’ ”
“Oh, it’s not enough that I have to take this from you, now I have
Lucarno
chastising me—”
“Jean,” she interrupted, pressing his head more firmly against her with a hug. “Stay
with me.”
“What?”
“This is a good life,” she whispered. “You suit it.
We
suit it. After we deal with Stragos … stay with me.”
“I like it here,” said Jean. “Sometimes I think I could stay forever. But there are … other
places I could show you. Other things we could do.”
“I’m not sure I’d adjust well to life on land—”
“Land has its pirates, same as the sea,” he murmured between kisses. “I’m one of them.
You could—”
“Belay this. We don’t have to decide anything now. Just … think on what I said. I
didn’t bring you in here for negotiations.”
“What did you bring me here for?”
“Noise,” she whispered, starting to pull his tunic off. “Lots and lots of noise.”
JUST BEFORE the midnight change of watches, Gwillem emerged from his new quarters
into the narrow corridor between the ship’s four smaller cabins. Scowling, clad only
in his breechclout and a hastily thrown-on vest, he stepped across to the door of
his old compartment. Bits of flannel rag were stuffed into his ears.
He pounded on the door several times. When no answer was forthcoming, he knocked again
and hollered, “Treganne, you bitch, I’ll get you for this!”
“ARE HER preparations almost complete, then?”
The two men met in the roofless ruins of a stone cottage, south of the city proper,
so close to the edge of the eerie jungle that not even drunks and
gazers would crawl out to it for shelter. It was near midnight, and a hard rain was
falling, warm as spit.
“Got all our junk sold just this afternoon. Been taking on water and ale like crazy.
More than enough food already. Once we scrape up everyone that wants to get scraped
up tomorrow, I’m sure we’re gone.”
Jaffrim Rodanov nodded, and for the hundredth time cast his gaze around the broken
house and its shadows. Anyone close enough to listen through the noise of the rain
would have to be close enough to spot, he reckoned.
“Drakasha said … disturbing things when she called the council. What’s she told you
about her plans once she’s back at sea?”
“Nothing,” said the other man. “Peculiar. Usually she gives us a good week to get
our skulls busted and our purses sucked dry. She’s got a fire under her ass, and it’s
a mystery to the rest of us.”
“Of course,” said Rodanov. “She wouldn’t tell you anything until you were on your
way. But she’s said nothing about the archon? About Tal Verrar?”
“No. So what do you think she’s—”
“I know exactly what she’s doing. I’m just not entirely convinced it’s wise.” Rodanov
sighed. “She might call down a heap of shit on everyone in the Ghostwinds.”
“So now you—”
“Yeah.” Rodanov passed a purse over, giving it a shake so the coins within could be
heard. “Just like we discussed. Keep your eyes open. Note what you see. I’ll want
to hear about it after.”
“And the other thing?”
“Got it here,” said Rodanov, hefting an oilcloth satchel with a heavy weight inside.
“You’re
sure
you have a place where this cannot be found—”
“My sea chest. Privilege of rank, right? Got a false bottom.”
“Good enough.” Rodanov passed the satchel over.
“And if I have to … use this thing …”
“Again, like we discussed. Three times what I just paid you, waiting for you once
it’s done.”
“I want more than that,” said the man. “I want a place aboard the
Sovereign
.”
“Of course.” Rodanov extended his hand, and the other man met his grip. They shook
in the traditional Vadran fashion, clasping each other’s forearms. “You know I can
always use a good man.”
“You’re using him right now, hey? Just want to be sure I got a place to call home
when all this is over. One way or another.”
Utgar’s grin was the faintest crescent of white against the shadows.
NORTH BY east on the Sea of Brass, with the wet southern wind on the starboard quarter,
the
Poison Orchid
dashed across the waves like a racing mare at last given her head. It was the third
day of Aurim.
After a day lost laboriously navigating the twisting, rock-choked passage called the
Trader’s Gate, they had spent two more dodging reefs and islands, until the last jungle-crowned
dome and the last volcanic smoke of the Ghostwinds had been sunk beneath the horizon.
“This is the game,” said Drakasha, addressing the group she’d assembled on the quarterdeck.
Delmastro, Treganne, Gwillem, Utgar, Nasreen, Oscarl, and all the skilled mates—carpenters,
sailmakers, and so forth. Mumchance listened from his place at the wheel, and Locke
listened from the quarterdeck stairs, along with Jean and a half dozen off-watch sailors.
If they hadn’t exactly been invited to hear the captain’s little speech, neither had
they been dissuaded. There was no point, when news would travel across a ship faster
than fire.
“We’re bound for Tal Verrar,” said Drakasha. “We’re going to allow our new friends
Ravelle and Valora to conduct a bit of sneaky business ashore.”
“Bounty,” said Mumchance.
“He’s right,” said Gwillem. “Begging your pardon, Captain, but if we haul up in sight
of Tal Verrar—”
“If the
Poison Orchid
drops anchor, aye, I’m worth a lot of money. But if we make some adjustments to my
pretty ship here and there, alter the sail plan a bit, swap my stern lanterns for
something plainer, and paint a false name in huge damn letters at the stern …”
“What shall we call her, Captain?” asked the carpenter.
“I’m partial to
Chimera
.”
“That’s cheeky,” said Treganne. “But what’s the gain for the rest of us in this ‘sneaky
business,’ Drakasha?”
“Nothing I care to discuss before the deed is done,” said Drakasha. “But the gain
for all of us will be substantial. You might say we’re going out with the blessing
of the whole council of captains.”
“Then why aren’t they out here lending a hand?” asked Nasreen.
“Because there’s only one captain who’s best at what she does.” Drakasha gave an exaggerated
curtsy. “Now, back to duties or to slacking, as you were. Spread the word to everyone.”
Locke was slacking a few minutes later, alone with his thoughts at the larboard rail,
when Jean took the spot beside him. The sea and sky alike
were bronzing around the setting sun, and the warm ocean air was nonetheless refreshing
after the sweaty atmosphere of the Ghostwinds.
“You feel anything strange?” asked Jean.
“What, about the—oh, you mean the poison. No. Can’t say that I feel any better or
worse than I have for a while. But, ah, I’m sure I’ll try to get a message to you
if I start vomiting up newts or something. Assuming you could hear anyone knocking
at that cabin door—”
“Oh, gods. Not you, too. Ezri nearly tipped Gwillem over the taffrail—”
“Well, let’s be honest, people will notice the sort of racket that generally accompanies
an attack upon the ship—”
“And now
you
are about to have a sudden accident—”
“… by Jeremite Redeemers mounted on cavalry steeds. Where do you find the energy?”
“She makes it easy,” said Jean.