Authors: Scott Lynch
Stack of crates, Locke thought, and by then it was too late.
Two men stepped from the shadows as Locke and Jean passed, from the most obvious ambush
spot possible.
Locke and Jean whirled together; only the fact that they were carrying their stolen
crossbows in their hands gave them any chance to bring them up in time. Four arms
flew out; four men standing close enough to hold hands drew on their targets. Four
fingers quivered, each separated from their triggers by no more than the width of
a single droplet of sweat.
Locke Lamora stood on the pier in Tal Verrar with the hot wind of a burning ship at
his back and the cold bite of a loaded crossbow’s bolt at his neck.
HE GRINNED, gasping for breath, and concentrated on holding his own crossbow level
with the left eye of his opponent; they were close enough that they would catch most
of one another’s blood, should they both twitch their fingers at the same time.
“Be reasonable,” said the man facing him. Beads of sweat left visible trails as they
slid down his grime-covered cheeks and forehead. “Consider the disadvantages of your
situation.”
Locke snorted. “Unless your eyeballs are made of iron, the disadvantage is mutual.
Wouldn’t you say so, Jean?”
Jean and his foe were toe-to-toe with their crossbows similarly poised. Not one of
them could miss at this range, not if all the gods above or below the heavens willed
it otherwise.
“All four of us would seem … to be up to our balls in quicksand,” said Jean between
breaths.
On the water behind them, the old galleon groaned and creaked as the roaring flames
consumed it from the inside out. Night was made day for hundreds of yards around;
the hull was crisscrossed with the white-orange lines of seams coming apart. Smoke
boiled out of those hellish cracks in little black eruptions, the last shuddering
breaths of a vast wooden beast dying in agony. The four men stood on their pier, strangely
alone in the midst of light and noise that was drawing the attention of the entire
city. Nobody in the boats was paying any attention to them.
“Lower your piece, for the love of the gods,” said Locke’s opponent. “We’ve been instructed
not to kill you, if we don’t have to.”
“And I’m sure you’d be honest if it were otherwise, of course,” said Locke. His smile
grew. “I make it a point never to trust men with weapons at my windpipe. Sorry.”
“Your hand will start to shake long before mine does.”
“I’ll rest the tip of my quarrel against your nose when I get tired. Who sent you
after us? What are they paying you? We’re not without funds; a happy arrangement could
be reached.”
“Actually,” said Jean, “I know who sent them.”
“What? Really?” Locke flicked a glance at Jean before locking eyes with his adversary
once again.
“And an arrangement has been reached, but I wouldn’t call it happy.”
“Ah … Jean, I’m afraid you’ve lost me.”
“No.” Jean raised one hand, palm out, to the man opposite him. He then slowly, carefully
shifted his aim to his left—until his crossbow was pointing at Locke’s head. The man
he’d previously been threatening blinked in surprise. “You’ve lost
me
, Locke.”
“Jean,” said Locke, the grin vanishing from his face, “this isn’t funny.”
“I agree. Hand your piece over to me.”
“Jean—”
“Hand it over now. Smartly. You there, are you some kind of moron? Get that thing
out of my face and point it at him.”
Jean’s former opponent licked his lips nervously, but didn’t move. Jean ground his
teeth together. “Look, you sponge-witted dock ape, I’m doing your job for you. Point
your crossbow at my gods-damned partner so we can get off this pier!”
“Jean, I would describe this turn of events as
less than helpful
,” said Locke, and he looked as though he might say more, except that Jean’s opponent
chose that moment to take Jean’s advice.
It seemed to Locke that sweat was now cascading down his face, as though his own treacherous
moisture were abandoning the premises before anything worse happened.
“There. Three on one.” Jean spat on the pier. “You gave me no choice but to cut a
deal with the employer of these gentlemen before we set out—gods damn it,
you
forced
me
. I’m sorry. I thought they’d make contact before they drew down on us. Now give your
weapon over.”
“Jean, what the
hell
do you think you’re—”
“Don’t.
Don’t
say another fucking thing. Don’t try to finesse me; I know you too well to let you
have your say. Silence, Locke. Finger off the trigger and
hand it over
.”
Locke stared at the steel-tipped point of Jean’s quarrel, his mouth open
in disbelief. The world around him seemed to fade to that tiny, gleaming point, alive
with the orange reflection of the inferno blazing in the anchorage behind him. Jean
would have given him a hand signal if he were lying.… Where the hell was the hand
signal?
“I don’t believe this,” he whispered. “This is impossible.”
“This is the last time I’m going to say this, Locke.” Jean ground his teeth together
and held his aim steady, directly between Locke’s eyes. “Take your finger off the
trigger and hand over your gods-damned weapon.
Right now
.”
“I am hard pressed on my right; my center is giving way; situation excellent. I am
attacking.”
General Ferdinand Foch
JAFFRIM RODANOV WADED in the shallows by the hull of an overturned fishing boat, listening
to the waves break against its shattered planks as they washed over his ankles. The
sand and water of Prodigal Bay were pristine this far from the city. No layers of
night soil slimed the water, no rusting metal scraps or pottery shards littered the
bottom. No corpses floated as grim rafts for squawking birds.
Twilight, on the seventh day of Aurim. Drakasha gone for a week now. A thousand miles
away, Jaffrim thought, a mistake was being made.
Ydrena whistled. She was leaning against the hull of the abandoned fishing boat, neither
too close nor too far from him, merely emphasizing by her presence that Rodanov was
not alone, and that his attendance at this meeting was known to his crew.
Jacquelaine Colvard had arrived.
She left her first mate beside Ydrena, shrugged out of her own boots, and waded into
the water without hiking up her breeches. Old and unbent Colvard, who’d been sacking
ships in these waters when he’d been a boy with his nose buried in musty scrolls.
Before he’d even seen a ship that wasn’t inked onto a sheet of parchment.
“Jaffrim,” she said. “Thank you for humoring me.”
“There’s only one thing you could want to talk about at the moment,” said Rodanov.
“Yes. And it’s on your mind too, isn’t it?”
“It was a mistake to give Drakasha our oaths.”
“Was it?”
Rodanov hooked his thumbs into his sword-belt and looked down at the darkening water,
the ripples where his pale ankles vanished into it. “I was generous when I should
have been cynical.”
“So you fancy yourself the only one who had the power to forbid this?”
“I could have withheld my oath.”
“But then it would have been four against one, with you as the one,” said Colvard,
“and Drakasha would have gone north looking over her shoulder all the way.”
Rodanov felt a cold excitement in his gut.
“I’ve noticed curious things, these past few days,” she continued. “Your crew has
been spending less time in the city. You’ve been taking on water. And I’ve seen you
on your quarterdeck, testing your instruments. Checking your backstaffs.”
His excitement rose. Out here alone, had she come to confront him or abet him? Could
she be mad enough to put herself in his reach, if it was the former?
“You know, then,” he said at last.
“Yes.”
“Do you intend to talk me out of it?”
“I intend to see that it’s done right.”
“Ah.”
“You have someone aboard the
Poison Orchid
, don’t you?”
Though taken aback, Rodanov found himself in no mood to dissemble.
“If you’ll tell me how you know,” he said, “I won’t insult you by denying it.”
“It was an educated guess. After all, you tried to place someone aboard my ship once.”
“Ah,” he said, sucking air through his teeth. “So Riela didn’t die in a boat accident
after all.”
“Yes and no,” said Colvard. “It happened in a boat, at least.”
“Do you—”
“Blame you? No. You’re a cautious man, Jaffrim, as I am a fundamentally cautious woman.
It’s our shared caution that brings us here this evening.”
“Do you want to come with?”
“No,” said Colvard. “And my reasons are practical. First, that the
Sovereign
is ready for sea while the
Draconic
is not. Second, that two of us putting out together would cause … an inconvenient
degree of speculation when Drakasha fails to return.”
“There’ll be speculation regardless. And there’ll be confirmation. My crew won’t bite
their tongues forever.”
“But anything could have happened, to bring one and one together on the high seas,”
said Colvard. “If we put out in a squadron, collusion will be the only reasonable
possibility.”
“And I suppose it’s just coincidence,” said Jaffrim, “that even several days since
you first spotted my preparations, the
Draconic
still isn’t ready for sea?”
“Well—”
“Spare me, Jacquelaine. I was ready to do this before we came here tonight. Just don’t
imagine that you’ve somehow
finessed
me into going in your place.”
“Jaffrim. Peace. So long as this arrow hits the target, it doesn’t matter who pulls
back the string.” She unbound her gray hair and let it fly free about her shoulders
in the muggy breeze. “What are your intentions?”
“Obvious, I should think. Find her. Before she does enough damage to give Stragos
what he wants.”
“And should you run her down, what then? Polite messages, broadside to broadside?”
“A warning. A last chance.”
“An ultimatum for
Drakasha
?” Her frown turned every line on her face near-vertical. “Jaffrim, you know too well
how she’ll react to any threat. Like a netted shark. If you try to get close to a
creature in that state, you’ll lose a hand.”
“A fight, then. I suppose we both know it’ll come to that.”
“And the outcome of that fight?”
“My ship is the stronger and I have eighty more souls to spare. It won’t be pretty,
but I intend to make it mathematical.”
“Zamira slain, then.”
“That’s what tends to happen—”
“Assuming you allow her the courtesy of death in battle.”
“Allow?”
“Consider,” said Colvard, “that while Zamira’s course of action is too dangerous to
tolerate, her logic was impeccable in one respect.”
“And that is?”
“Merely killing her, plus this Ravelle and Valora, would only serve to bandage a wound
that already festers. The rot will deepen. We need to sate Maxilan Stragos’ ambition,
not just foil it temporarily.”
“Agreed. But I’m losing my taste for subtlety as fast as I’m depleting my
supply, Colvard. I’m going to be blunt with Drakasha. Grant me the same courtesy.”
“Stragos needs a victory not for the sake of his own vanity, but to rouse the people
of his city. If that victory is lurking in the waters
near
Tal Verrar, and if that victory is colorful enough, what need would he have to trouble
us down here?”
“We put a sacrifice on the altar,” Rodanov whispered. “We put
Zamira
on the altar.”
“After Zamira does some damage. After she raises just enough hell to panic the city.
If the notorious pirate, the
infamous
rogue Zamira Drakasha, with a five-thousand solari bounty on her head, were to be
paraded through Tal Verrar in chains … brought to justice so quickly after foolishly
challenging the city once again …”
“Stragos victorious. Tal Verrar united in admiration.” Rodanov sighed. “Zamira hung
over the Midden Deep in a cage.”
“Satisfaction in every quarter,” said Colvard.
“I may not be able to take her alive, though.”
“Whatever you hand over to the archon would be of equal value. Corpse or quick, alive
or dead, he’ll have his trophy, and the Verrari would swarm the streets to see it.
It would be best, I suspect, to let him have what’s left of the
Poison Orchid
as well.”
“I do the dirty work. Then hand him the victor’s laurels.”
“And the Ghostwinds will be spared.”
Rodanov stared out across the waters of the bay for some time before speaking again.
“So we presume. But we have no better notions.”
“When will you leave?”
“The morning tide.”
“I don’t envy you the task of navigating the
Sovereign
through the Trader’s Gate—”
“I don’t envy myself. I’ll take the Parlor Passage.”
“Even by day, Jaffrim?”
“Hours count. I refuse to see any more wasted.” He turned for shore, to retrieve his
boots and be on his way. “Can’t buy in for the last hand if you don’t get there in
time to take a chair.”
FEELING THE hot sting of sudden tears in his eyes, Locke slipped his finger away from
the trigger of the alley-piece and slowly put it up in the air.
“Will you at least tell me why?” he said.
“Later.” Jean didn’t lower his own weapon. “Give me the crossbow. Slowly.
Slowly
!”
Locke’s arm was shaking; the nervous reaction had lent an unwanted jerkiness to his
movements. Concentrating, trying to keep his emotions under control, Locke passed
the bow over to Jean.
“Good,” said Jean. “Keep your hands up. You two brought rope, right?”
“Yeah.”