Authors: Scott Lynch
Locke smirked. That had been by design; after Saljesca’s most important guests had
fled to her fortresslike manor and barricaded themselves there with her remaining
soldiers, attacking the manor would have been fruitless; the Orchids would have been
slaughtered beneath the walls. But with their only opposition bottled up atop the
valley, Drakasha’s crew had been free to run amok for more than an hour, looting and
burning the valley at leisure. They’d lost only four crewfolk in the attack.
As for the shops, well—Locke had specifically requested that the area surrounding
the Baumondain family business be left alone.
“We didn’t have time to hit everything,” he said. “And now that Salon Corbeau’s more
or less ruined, some of those artisans might see fit to settle in Tal Verrar. Safer
down here, with you and your military around, right?”
“How can you spend your time executing a raid like that so efficiently,” said Stragos,
“when your efforts toward my primary design are so perfunctory?”
“I object—”
“One attack by Orrin Ravelle—
thank you
for that, by the way—the night of the festa, against an Iridani ketch hired by a
mad eccentric. Two more reported attacks, both in the vicinity of Salon Corbeau, one
by Ravelle and one by the unknown “Captain de la Mastron.” Does Drakasha fear to take
credit for her own work?”
“We’re trying to create the impression of multiple pirates at work—”
“What you are trying is my patience. You have stolen no major cargos, burned no ships
at sea, nor even murdered any crewfolk. You content yourselves with money and portable
valuables, you humiliate and frighten your prisoners, you do little more than vandalize
their vessels, and then you vanish.”
“We can’t weigh ourselves down with heavier cargo; we’ve got a lot of roaming to do.”
“It seems to me that you have a fair bit of
killing
to do,” said Stragos. “The city is more bemused now than concerned; I continue to
suffer in the public eye for the Ravelle affair, but few fear that this spree of … hooliganism
truly bodes ill for Verrari trade.
“Even the sack of Salon Corbeau has failed to arouse anxiety. Your
recent attacks give the impression that you now fear to approach the city again; that
these waters remain safe.” Stragos glared before continuing. “Were I purchasing goods
from a tradesman, at the moment, I would not be well pleased with their quality.”
“The difference, of course,” said Locke, “is that when I get fitted for, say, new
jackets, I don’t
poison
my tailor until he has the length of the sleeves right—”
“My life and fortunes are at stake,” said Stragos, rising from his chair. “And so
are yours, dependent upon your success. I require butchers, not jesters. Take ships
within sight of my city’s walls. Put their crews to the sword. Take their cargo or
burn it—the time has come to be
serious
. That and that alone will stir this city to its foundations.
“Do not return,” he said, emphasizing every word, “until you have spilled blood in
these waters. Until you have become a scourge.”
“So be it,” said Locke. “Another sip of our antidote—”
“No.”
“If you wish us to work with absolute confidence—”
“You will
keep
,” said Stragos. “Like pickled eggs in a jar. It has been less than two weeks since
your last dose. You are in no danger for six more.”
“But—wait, Archon.” Jean interrupted him as he was turning to leave. “One thing more.
When we came to this city on the night of the festa, we were attacked again.”
Stragos’ eyes narrowed. “The same assassins as before?”
“If you mean the same mystery, yes, we think so,” said Jean. “Some lurked in wait
for us at the docks after we visited Requin. If they received a tip-off concerning
our presence in the city, they moved damned fast.”
“And the only place we went,” added Locke, “before visiting the Golden Steps was
here
.”
“My people had nothing to do with it,” said Stragos. “Indeed, this is the first I
have heard of the matter.”
“We left four dead behind us,” said Jean.
“Unremarkable. The constables found nearly thirty bodies throughout the city after
the festa; there are always arguments and robberies to supply them.” Stragos sighed.
“Obviously, this is nothing of my doing, and I have nothing more to tell you on the
matter. I presume you’ll be returning straight to your ship when you leave.”
“At speed,” said Locke. “Staying as far from the islands as we can.”
“The complications of some previous malfeasance have obviously come back to ensnare
you,” said Stragos. “Now leave. No more antidote and no more consultation. You extend
your lease on fair health again only once
you send panicked merchants to my gates, begging for help because death lurks beyond
these harbors. Go now and
do your job
.”
He whirled and left without a further word. A moment later a squad of Eyes marched
in through the main door and waited expectantly.
“Well, damn,” muttered Jean.
“WE’LL GET the bastard,” said Ezri as they lay together in her cabin that night. The
Poison Orchid
, now calling itself the
Mercurial
, was treading heavy seas about twenty miles southwest of Tal Verrar, and the two
of them clung to one another as they rocked back and forth in the hammock.
“With difficulty,” said Jean. “He won’t see us now until we do some serious work on
his behalf … and if we do that, we might push things to the point that he no longer
needs us. We’ll get a knife, rather than an antidote. Or … if it comes to that, he’ll
get the knife—”
“Jean, I don’t want to hear that,” she said. “Don’t talk about it.”
“It’s got to be faced, love—”
“I don’t believe it,” she said. “I don’t. There’s
always
a way to attack or a way to escape. That’s the way it is out here.” She rolled over
on top of him and kissed him. “I told you not to give up, Jean Tannen, and the thing
about me is I
get
my way.”
“Gods,” whispered Jean, “how did I ever live before I met you?”
“Sadly, poorly, miserably,” she said. “I make everything so much better. It’s why
the gods put me here. Now quit moping and tell me something pleasant!”
“Something pleasant?”
“Yeah, slackwit, I’ve heard that other lovers sometimes tell one another pleasant
things when they’re alone—”
“Yes, but with you it’s sort of on pain of death, isn’t it?”
“It could be. Let me find a saber—”
“Ezri,” he said with sudden seriousness. “Look—when this is over, Stragos and all,
Leocanto and I might be … very rich men. If our other business in Tal Verrar goes
well.”
“Not if,” she said. “When.”
“All right,” he said. “
When
it does … you really could come with us. Leo and I spoke about it a bit. You don’t
have to choose one life or another, Ezri. You can just sort of … go on leave for a
bit. We all could.”
“What do you mean?”
“We could get a yacht,” said Jean, “in Vel Virazzo, there’s this place—the
private marina, where all the swells keep their boats and barges. They usually have
a few for sale, if you’ve got a few hundred solari on hand, which we intend to. We
have to go to Vel Virazzo anyway, to sort of … finish our business. We could have
a boat fitted out in a couple of days, and then just … poke around a bit! Drift. Enjoy
ourselves. Pretend to be useless gentlefolk for a while.”
“And come back to all this later, you mean?”
“Whenever you wanted,” said Jean. “Have it as you like. You always get your way, don’t
you?”
“Live on a yacht for a while with you and Leocanto,” she said. “No offense, Jean,
you’re passable for a landsman, but by his own admission Leocanto couldn’t con a shoe
across a puddle of piss—”
“What do you think we’d be bringing you along for, hmmm?”
“Well, I would have imagined that
this
had something to do with it,” she said, moving her hands strategically to a more
interesting location.
“Ah,” he said, “and so it does, but you could sort of be honorary captain, too—”
“Can I name the boat?”
“As if you’d let anyone else do it!”
“All right,” she whispered. “If that’s the plan, that’s the plan. We’ll do it.”
“You really mean—”
“Hell,” she said, “with just the swag we pulled from Salon Corbeau, everyone on this
crew can stay drunk for months when we get back to the Ghostwinds. Zamira won’t miss
me for a while.” They kissed. “Half a year.” They kissed again. “Year or two, maybe.”
“Always a way to attack,” Jean mused between kisses, “always a way to escape.”
“Of course,” she whispered. “Hold fast, and sooner or later you’ll always find what
you’re after.”
JAFFRIM RODANOV paced the quarterdeck of the
Dread Sovereign
in the silvery-orange light of earliest morning. They were bound north by west with
the wind on the starboard quarter, about forty miles southwest of Tal Verrar. The
seas were running at five or six feet.
Tal Verrar. Half a day’s sailing to the city they’d avoided like a colony of slipskinners
these past seven years; to the home of a navy that could crush even his powerful
Sovereign
if roused to anger. There was no genuine freedom in these waters, only a vague illusion.
Fat merchant ships he could
never touch; a rich city he could never sack. Yet he could live with that. It was
grand
, provided only that the freedom and the plunder of the southern seas could remain.
“Captain,” said Ydrena, appearing on deck with a chipped clay mug of her usual brandy-laced
morning tea in one hand, “I don’t mean to ruin a fine new morning—”
“You wouldn’t be my first if I needed my ass kissed more than I needed my ship sailed.”
“A week out here without a lead, Captain.”
“We’ve seen two dozen sails of merchants, luggers, and pleasure galleys just these
past two days,” said Rodanov. “And we have yet to see a naval ensign. There’s still
time to find her.”
“No quarrel with that logic, Captain. It’s the finding her that’s—”
“A royal pain in the ass. I know.”
“It’s not as though she’ll be roaming around announcing herself as Zamira Drakasha
of the
Poison Orchid
,” said Ydrena, taking a sip of her tea. “ ‘Well met, we’re infamous shipwreckers
from the Ghostwinds; mind if we pull alongside for a visit?’ ”
“She can claim whatever name she likes,” said Rodanov, “paint whatever she wants on
her stern, mess with her sail plan until she looks like a constipated xebec, but she’s
only got one hull. Dark witchwood hull. And we’ve been seeing it for years.”
“All hulls are dark until you get awful close, Captain.”
“Ydrena, if I had a better notion, believe me, we’d be pursuing it.” He yawned and
stretched, feeling the heavy muscles in his arms flex pleasantly. “Only word we’ve
got is a few ships getting hit, and now Salon Corbeau. She’s circling out here somewhere,
keeping west. It’s what I’d do—more sea room.”
“Aye,” said Ydrena. “Such a very great
deal
of sea room.”
“Ydrena,” he said softly, “I’ve come a long way to break an oath and kill a friend.
I’ll go as far as it takes, and I’ll haunt her wake as long as it takes. We’ll quarter
this sea until one of us finds the other.”
“Or the crew decides they’ve had—”
“It’s a good long haul till we cross that line. In the meantime, double all our top-eyes
by night. Triple them by day. We’ll put half the fucking crew up the masts if we have
to.”
“New sail ahoy,” called a voice from atop the foremast. The cry was passed back down
the deck, and Rodanov ran forward, unable to restrain himself. They’d heard the cry
fifty times that week if they’d heard it once, but each time might be
the
time.
“Where away?”
“Three points off the starboard bow!”
“Ydrena,” Rodanov shouted, “set more canvas! Straight for the sighting! Helm, bring
us about north-northeast on the starboard tack!”
Whatever the sighting was, the
Dread Sovereign
was at home in wind and waters like this; her size and weight allowed her to crash
through waves that would steal speed from lighter vessels. They would close with the
sighting very soon.
Still, the minutes passed interminably. They came about to their new course, seizing
the power of the wind now blowing from just abaft their starboard beam. Rodanov prowled
the forecastle, waiting—
“Captain Rodanov! She’s a two-master, sir! Say again, two masts!”
“Very good,” he shouted. “Ydrena! First mate to the forecastle!”
She was there in a minute, pale blond hair fluttering in the breeze. She tossed back
the last of her morning tea as she arrived.
“Take my best glass to the foretop,” he said. “Tell me … as soon as you know anything.”
“Aye,” she said. “At least it’s something to do.”
The morning progressed with torturous slowness, but at least the sky was cloudless.
Good conditions for spotting. The sun grew higher and brighter, until—
“Captain,” hollered Ydrena. “Witchwood hull! That’s a two-masted brig with a witchwood
hull!”
He couldn’t stand waiting passively anymore. “I’m coming up myself,” he shouted.
Laboriously, he crawled up the foremast shrouds, to the observation platform at the
maintop, a place he’d left to smaller, younger sailors for many years. Ydrena was
perched there, along with a crewman who shuffled aside to make room for him on the
platform. Rodanov took the glass and peered at the ship on the horizon, stared at
it until not even the most cautious part of himself would let him deny it.
“It’s her,” he said. “She’s done something fancy to her sails, but that’s the
Orchid
.”
“What now?”
“Set every scrap of canvas we can bear,” he said. “Steal as much of this ocean from
her as we can before she recognizes us.”