Authors: Scott Lynch
“Ah.”
“She’s asked me to stay,” said Jean, looking down at his hands.
“Aboard the ship? Once all of this is over? Assuming there’s anything left of us?”
Jean nodded. “And by me, I’m sure she meant you as well—”
“Oh, of course she did,” said Locke, not entirely curbing his reflexive tone of sarcasm.
“What did you say?”
“I asked her … I thought maybe she could come with us.”
“You love her.” Locke nodded to himself before Jean could answer. “You’re not just
marking time while we’re out here. You’ve really fallen off the cliff, haven’t you?”
“Yeah,” Jean whispered.
“She’s good,” said Locke. “She’s got wits and fire. She has a real taste for taking
things away from people at swordpoint, which is an asset in my book. And at least
her you can trust at your back in a fight—”
“I’ve
always
trusted you—”
“To
be
at your back in a fight, sure. But her you can trust not to embarrass everyone before
it’s over. You two won the day on the
Kingfisher
, not me. And I saw how she got kicked around—most people would have hugged their
hammocks for a few days after that. She’s too damn stubborn to stop moving. You two
really are a good match.”
“You make it sound like it’s her or you—”
“Of course it doesn’t have to be. But things will change—”
“Change, yes. And
improve
. This doesn’t have to mean the end of anything.”
“Take her with us? Three against the world? Start up the whole thing again, rebuild
a gang? Haven’t we had this conversation before?”
“Yes, and—”
“I was doing my best impression of a drunken asshole at the time. I know.” Locke put
his left hand atop Jean’s right. “You’re right. Things can change, and improve. We’ve
seen it happen to other people; maybe it can happen to us for once. Soon as we finish
the Sinspire game, we’ll be richer than hell, and no longer welcome in Tal Verrar’s
polite society. She could come with us … or you could stay with her.…”
“I don’t know yet,” said Jean. “Neither of us knows. We’ve decided to deal with the
question by ignoring it for the duration of the voyage.”
“Excellent idea.”
“But I want—”
“Listen. When the time comes, you make whatever choice you need to, and you don’t
think about me, understand? It
is
a fine match. Maybe you could do better—”
Locke grinned to let Jean know that there was no actual need to knock his brains out
of his skull.
“—but I know for a solid fact that she couldn’t.
Ever
.” So saying, he squeezed Jean’s hand. “I’m happy for you. You’ve gone and stolen
something back from this whole dead-end distraction Stragos has shoved us into. Hold
it tight.”
There seemed nothing else to say, so they stood listening to the cries of the circling
gulls and watched the sun sink into the far horizon, bleeding its fire into the sea.
Eventually, heavy footsteps sounded on the quarterdeck stairs behind them.
“My boys,” said Drakasha, appearing behind them and draping her arms across their
shoulders, “just the pair I wanted to speak with. I’m removing you from afternoon
watch duty with all the other Reds.”
“Um … that’s generous,” said Locke.
“No it isn’t. From now on, you’re detached to the carpenter’s mercy for afternoons.
Since we’re slipping into Tal Verrar for your benefit, most of the alterations to
the
Orchid
are going to be your responsibility. Painting, carving, rigging—you two will be rather
busy.”
“Wow,” said Locke, “that sounds like an absolutely
grand
way to spend the voyage.”
It wasn’t.
“LAND HO,” cried the early evening foremast watch. “Land and fire one point on the
starboard bow!”
“Fire?” Locke looked up from his hand in the card game that had broken out in the
undercastle. “Shit!” He dropped his cards to the deck, forfeiting his seven-solari
bet for the round. Nearly a year’s pay for an honest Verrari laborer; common stakes
for the games that took place after shares were paid out. There was a lot of spare
coinage floating around the ship, since they’d left Port Prodigal in such a hurry.
Emerging from the undercastle, he nearly slammed into Delmastro.
“Lieutenant, is that Tal Verrar?”
“Has to be.”
“And the fire? Is that certain?” Fire in the city could mean some sort of disaster,
or it could mean civil war. Chaos. Stragos might already be dead, or besieged, or
even victorious—and therefore in no further need of Locke or Jean.
“It’s the twenty-first, Ravelle.”
“I know what bloody day it is; I just—oh. Oh!”
The twenty-first of Aurim; the
Festa Iono
, the grand pageant of the Lord of the Grasping Waters. Locke sighed with relief.
Away from the usual rhythms of the city, he’d all but forgotten about the holiday.
At the
Festa Iono
, the Verrari gave thanks for Iono’s influence on the city’s fortunes by ceremonially
burning old ships while thousands of drunkards made a mess of the streets and canals.
Locke had only ever seen it from the balconies of the Sinspire, but it was a lively
time. Hell, that would make slipping into the city easier; there’d be a thousand things
going on to keep the watch busy.
“All hands,” came the cry from astern. “All hands at the waist! Captain wants a word!”
Locke grinned. In the event of an all-hands call during a card game, the game had
to stop, and everyone with a stake in the pot got it back. His seven solari would
be returning home soon enough.
The Orchids mustered noisily at the waist, and after a few minutes were waved to silence
by Drakasha. The captain set an empty cask beside the mainmast, and Lieutenant Delmastro
leapt atop it, wearing a respectable overcoat from the ship’s store of fine clothing.
“For the rest of the night,” she shouted, “we’re the
Chimera
, and we’ve never even heard of the
Poison Orchid
. I’m the captain! I’ll be pacing the quarterdeck if anyone needs anything, and Drakasha
will be in her cabin unless things go to hell.
“If another ship hails us, I’ll be the one that answers. The rest of you pretend that
you don’t speak Therin. Our task is to deliver two of our new friends to shore, for
a job that’ll be important to us all. Ravelle, Valora—we’ll send you out in the same
boat you donated to our cause all those weeks ago.” She paused to allow a sudden outburst
of chatter to die off. “We should drop anchor in the next two hours. If you’re not
back by sunrise, this ship will be gone—and we’ll never come within five hundred miles
of this city again.”
“We understand,” said Locke.
“Once the anchor’s down,” continued Delmastro, “I’ll want double watches aloft. Rig
razor nets on both sides for a quick raise, but leave them down. Lay polearms at the
sides, up against the rails, and ready sabers at both the masts. If a customs boat
or anything else carrying a uniform tries to pay us a visit, we’ll invite them aboard
and detain them for the night. If anything more than that troubles us, we repel boarders,
lay on the canvas, and run like hell.”
There was a general murmur of approval to that idea.
“That’s it. Stand in to Tal Verrar. Mumchance, put us about a mile off the Emerald
Galleries. And raise an Ashmiri gray ensign at the taffrail.”
Ashmere, though lacking a merchant or military fleet of its own, did a brisk business
in registrations of convenience for smugglers, bounty-privateers, and tariff-dodging
merchants. Nobody would look twice at them for the sake of that ensign. More importantly,
nobody would approach merely for the sake of making small talk with fellow countrymen
far from home. Locke approved. And anchoring in the waters southeast of the city would
give them a good approach to the Castellana, so they could drop in on Stragos without
lurking too close to the crowded marinas or the main anchorage.
“Hey,” said Utgar, slapping Locke and Jean on the backs, “you two, what the hell are
you getting yourselves into? You want a bodyguard?”
“Ravelle’s the only bodyguard I need,” said Jean with a smirk.
“Fair enough. I’ll give you that. But what are you sticking your noses into, hmm?
Something dangerous?”
“Probably not,” said Locke. “Look, Drakasha will spin the full tale, probably sooner
than you think. For tonight, let’s just say we’re on ordinary errands.”
“Saying hello to Grandmother,” said Jean. “Paying off Uncle’s gambling debts. Picking
up three loaves of bread and a bushel of onions at the Night Market.”
“Fine, fine. Keep your secrets. Rest of us’ll stay behind and be bored, right?”
“Not likely,” said Locke. “This ship’s full of little surprises, isn’t it?”
“True enough,” said Utgar, chuckling. “True enough, hey. Well, be careful. Eyes of
the gods upon you and all that.”
“Thanks.” Locke scratched his beard, and then snapped his fingers. “Hell. I nearly
forgot something. Jerome, Utgar, see you in a bit.”
He jogged aft, dodging Blue watch work parties and bored Reds helping haul forth weapons
from the arms lockers. He took the quarterdeck stairs in two quick leaps, slid down
the companionway rails, and knocked loudly on Drakasha’s cabin door.
“It’s open,” she shouted.
“Captain,” said Locke, closing the door behind him, “I need to borrow the money that
was in my sea chest again.”
Drakasha was lounging on her hammock with Paolo and Cosetta, reading to them from
a heavy book that looked an awful lot like a
Wise Mariner’s Practical Lexicon
. “Technically, that money got cut up into shares,” she said, “but I can give you
the equivalent out of the ship’s purse. All of it?”
“Two hundred and fifty solari should do. Oh. It, um, won’t be coming back with me.”
“Fascinating,” she said. “That’s a definition of ‘borrow’ that doesn’t exactly compel
me to get up from this hammock. On your way out—”
“Captain, Stragos is just one half of tonight’s business. I need to keep Requin purring,
too. He has the power to crush this scheme like an insect if I don’t. Besides—if I
tickle his fancy, there’s one more useful item I might be able to squeeze out of him,
now that I think of it.”
“So you need a bribe.”
“Between friends we call them considerations. Come on, Drakasha. Consider it an investment
in our desired outcome.”
“For the sake of my peace and quiet, fine. I’ll have it waiting for you when you leave
the ship.”
“You’re too—
“I am not even remotely too kind. Begone.”
THEY’D BEEN away for seven weeks that felt like a lifetime.
Standing at the larboard rail, staring once again at the islands and towers of Tal
Verrar, Locke felt anxiety and melancholy mingling like liquors.
The clouds were low and dark above the city, reflecting the orange light of the festival
fire burning in the main anchorage.
“Ready for this?” asked Jean.
“Ready and sweating heavily,” said Locke.
They were dressed in borrowed finery, linen caps, and cloaks. The cloaks were too
warm, but not so rare on the streets of many neighborhoods; they meant that the wearer
was probably carrying weapons, and not to be trifled with. Hopefully, the added clothing
would help protect them from a casual glimpse by anyone inconvenient who might recognize
them.
“Heave out,” cried Oscarl, in charge of the party putting their boat over the side.
With the creak of rope and tackle, the little craft swung out into darkness and splashed
down into the water. Utgar shimmied down the boarding net to unfasten everything and
prepare the oars. As Locke stepped to the entry port and prepared to go down, Delmastro
caught his arm.
“Whatever else happens,” she whispered, “just bring him back.”
“I won’t fail,” said Locke. “And neither will he.”
“Zamira said to give you this.” Delmastro passed over a heavy leather purse, packed
tight with coins. Locke nodded his gratitude and slipped it into an inner cloak pocket.
As Locke crawled down to the boat, he passed Utgar, who gave a cheery salute and kept
climbing. Locke hopped down into the boat, but continued clinging to the boarding
net so he could stand upright. He glanced up, and by the light of the ship’s lanterns
he saw Jean and Ezri saying farewell with a kiss. She whispered something to him,
and then they parted.
“This is infinitely preferable to the last time we shared this boat alone,” said Jean
as they settled onto the rowing bench and fit the oars to their locks.
“You told her your real name, didn’t you?”
“What?” Jean’s eyes grew wide, and then he scowled. “Is that a guess?”
“I’m not much of a lip-reader, but the last thing she said to you had one syllable,
not two.”
“Oh,” sighed Jean. “Well, aren’t
you
the clever little bastard.”
“Yes on all three counts, actually.”
“I did, and I’m not sorry—”
“Gods, I’m not angry, Jean. I’m just showing off.” They began to row together, pulling
hard, driving the boat across the dark, choppy water toward the channel between the
Galezzo District and the Emerald Galleries.
Minutes of rowing passed without conversation; the oars creaked, the water splashed,
and the
Poison Orchid
fell away to stern, the whiteness of
her furled sails vanishing into the darkness, until all that remained of her was a
faint constellation of lantern lights.
“The alchemist,” said Locke, without any warning.
“Huh?”
“Stragos’
alchemist
. He’s the key to this mess.”
“If by ‘key’ you mean ’cause’—”
“No, listen. How likely is it that Stragos is ever going to just accidentally leave
us the glasses he uses to give us our antidote? Or let a dose slip out of his pocket?”
“Easy question,” said Jean. “It’s bloody impossible.”
“Right. So it’s no use waiting for him to make a mistake—we’ve got to make contact
with that alchemist.”