Authors: Scott Lynch
“Heed this, now,” shouted Drakasha. “The sea isn’t our friend today; that son of a
bitch has more bite in the water than we do. A chase in any direction can’t buy us
more than a few hours. If we’re going to settle this at kissing distance, I intend
to set the terms of the courtship.
“We need to kill two for one just to have any of us left standing, so obviously we
need to do better even than that. If we lock up with him so that one of our sides
is against his bow, we can crowd in all around his boarding point and outnumber him
at the only place it matters. That big fat crew of his won’t mean a damn thing if
he has to feed it piece by piece right through our teeth.
“So, at the waist, I’ll put you in ranks, like the old Therin Throne legions. Swords
and shields up front, spears and halberds behind. Don’t take your sweet time. If you
can’t kill someone, knock them into the water. Just get them out of the damn fight!
“Del will choose our ten best archers and send you aloft to do the obvious. Five per
mast. I wish I could send more, but we’re going to need every blade on deck we can
get.
“Ravelle, Valora, I’m going to give you a few crewfolk to form our flying company.
Your job is the
Sovereign
’s boats. They’ll try and board us from all points of the compass once we’re engaged
at the waist, so you go wherever they go. One person on deck can keep five in a boat,
provided you act with haste.
“Nasreen, you’ll choose a party of three and stand by at the starboard anchor for
my command. Once it’s given, you’ll guard the bow against boats and free Ravelle’s
party to fight elsewhere.
“Utgar, you’re with me to load crossbows. Now, there’s ale at the forecastle and I
want to see the cask dry before we do this. Drink up, find your armor. If you’ve got
mail or leathers you’ve been saving, pile it on. I don’t care how much you sweat;
you’ll never need it again like you’ll need it today.”
Drakasha dismissed the crew by turning away from them and striding back up the quarterdeck
stairs. Pandemonium erupted amidships; suddenly crewfolk were shoving past one another
in all directions, some going
for their armor and weapons, others headed for what might be their last drink in life.
Ezri vaulted the quarterdeck railing and shouted as she strode forward into the chaos,
“Fire watches set double sand buckets! Rig the larboard razor net and hoist it high!
Jerome, get your lazy ass up on the quarterdeck! Form up the flying company there!”
Jean waved and followed Drakasha up to the stern of the ship, where Utgar waited,
looking nervous. Treganne was just descending the companionway stairs, muttering something
about “bulk rates.”
Suddenly, a low dark shape shot up the companionway and ran for Drakasha. She looked
down in response to a sudden tug on her breeches and found Paolo clutching at her,
unselfconsciously.
“Mommy, the noise!”
Zamira smiled and swept him up off the deck, cradling him against the lapels of her
jacket. She turned into the wind and let it push her hair out of her face. Jean could
see that Paolo’s eyes were on the
Dread Sovereign
as it heaved and swayed beneath the cloudless sky, implacably clawing across the
distance between them.
“Paolo, love, Mommy needs you to help her hide you and your sister in the rope locker
on the orlop deck, all right?”
The little boy nodded, and Zamira kissed him on the forehead, burying her nose in
his tangle of short dark curls with her eyes closed.
“Oh, good,” she said a moment later. “Because after that, Mommy needs to fetch her
armor and her sabers. And then she needs to go board that lying motherfucker’s ship
and sink it like a stone.”
JAFFRIM RODANOV was at the bow of his ship, the
Poison Orchid
steady in the center of his glass, when she suddenly whirled to larboard and pointed
herself at him like an arrow. Her mainsails shivered and began to vanish as Drakasha’s
crew hauled them up for battle.
“Ah,” he said. “There we go, Zamira. Doing the only sensible thing at last.”
Rodanov had dressed for a fight, as usual, in a leather coat reinforced with mail
inset at the back and the lapels. The nicks and creases in the battered old thing
were always a comfort to him, a reminder that people had been trying and failing to
kill him for years.
On his hands he wore his favored segmented blackened-steel gauntlets. In the confusion
of a close melee, they could catch blades and break skulls.
For the less personal work of actually forcing his way aboard the
Orchid
, he leaned on a waist-high iron-studded club. He folded his glass carefully and slipped
it into a pocket, resolving to return it to the binnacle before the fight began. Not
like the last time.
“Orders, Captain?”
Ydrena waited on the forecastle stairs, her own curved sword sheathed on her back,
with the majority of his crew ready behind her.
“She’s for us,” boomed Rodanov. “I know this doesn’t come easy, but Drakasha’s raiding
in Verrari waters. She’ll call down hell on the life we all enjoy—unless we stop her
now.
“Form up to starboard, as we planned. Shields up front. Crossbows behind. Remember,
one volley, then throw ’em down and pull steel. Boat crews, over the starboard side
once we’re locked with the
Orchid
. Grapples ready at the waist and bow. Helm! You have your orders—make it perfect
or pray you die in the fight.
“This day will be red! Drakasha is a foe to be reckoned with. But what are we, over
all the winds and waters of the Sea of Brass?”
“Sovereign!”
the crew shouted as one.
“Who are we, never boarded and never beaten?”
“Sovereign!”
“What do our enemies scream, when they speak the name of their doom at the judgment
of the gods?”
“Sovereign!”
“We are!” He waved his club above his head. “And we have some surprises for Zamira
Drakasha! Bring the cages forward!”
Three teams of six sailors apiece brought canvas-covered cages to the forecastle deck.
These cages had wooden carrying handles set well beyond their steel-mesh sides. They
were about six feet long, and half as wide and high.
“Nothing to eat since yesterday, right?”
“No,” said Ydrena.
“Good.” Rodanov double-checked the sections of the starboard rail his carpenter had
weakened, so one good shove would knock them over for about a ten-foot length. A blemish
on his beloved
Sovereign
, but one that could be fixed easily enough later. “Set them down over here. And kick
the cages. Let’s get them riled up.”
THE TWO ships crashed through the waves toward each other, and for a second time Locke
Lamora found himself about to get involved rather intimately in a battle at sea.
“Steady, Mum,” called Drakasha, who stood peering out over the larboard quarterdeck
rail. Locke and Jean waited nearby, armed with hatchets and sabers. Jean also had
a pair of leather bracers liberated from the property of Basryn, who was nowhere to
be seen since he alone had gone over the side with the small boat.
My boat
, Locke thought, somewhat bitterly.
For their “flying company,” Locke and Jean had Malakasti, Jabril, and Streva, as well
as Gwillem. All save the latter had shields and spears; the timid-looking quartermaster
wore a leather apron stuffed with heavy lead bullets for the sling he carried in his
left hand.
Most of the crew waited amidships, ranked as Drakasha had ordered; those with large
shields and stabbing swords up front, those with polearms in back. The mainsails were
drawn up, fire buckets were set out, the larboard entry port was protected by what
Delmastro had called a “skinner net,” and the
Poison Orchid
was rushing to the
Dread Sovereign
’s embrace like a long-separated lover.
Delmastro appeared out of the mess at the waist. She looked much as she had the first
time Locke had ever seen her, with her leather armor on and her hair pulled back for
action. Paying no heed to the weapons they were carrying at their belts, she leapt
onto Jean, wrapping her arms and legs around him. He put his arms behind her back
and they kissed until Locke chuckled out loud. Not the sort of thing one saw just
before most battles, he imagined.
“This day is ours,” she said when they parted at last.
“Try not to kill everyone over there before I even get involved, right?” Jean grinned
down at her, and she handed him something in a small silk bag.
“What’s this?”
“Lock of my hair,” she said. “Meant to give it to you days ago, but we got busy with
all the raiding. You know. Piracy. Hectic life.”
“Thank you, love,” he said.
“Now, if you find yourself in trouble wherever you go, you can hold up that little
bag to whoever’s bothering you, and you can say, ‘You have no idea who you’re fucking
with. I’m under the protection of the lady who gave me this object of her favor.’ ”
“And that’s supposed to make them stop?”
“Shit no, that’s just to confuse them. Then you kill them while they’re standing there
looking at you funny.”
They hugged again, and Drakasha cleared her throat.
“Del, if it’s not too much trouble, we’re planning to attack that ship just ahead
of us, so could you—”
“Oh, yeah, the fight for our lives. I guess I could help you out for a few minutes,
Captain.”
“Luck, Del.”
“Luck, Zamira.”
“Captain,” said Mumchance, “now—”
“Nasreen!”
Drakasha bellowed at the top of her considerable voice.
“Starboard anchor away!”
“Sound collision,” called Delmastro a moment later. “All hands brace yourselves! Up
aloft! Grab a mast, grab a line!”
Someone began to ring the foremast bell frantically. The two ships were closing with
astonishing speed. Locke and Jean crouched on the larboard quarterdeck stairs, clinging
tight to the inner rail. Locke glanced over at Drakasha and saw that she was counting
something, mouthing each number intently to herself. Curious, he tried to puzzle them
out and concluded she wasn’t counting in Therin.
“Captain,” said Mumchance, calm as someone ordering coffee, “other ship—”
“Helm harda-larboard,” Drakasha shouted. Mumchance and his mate began manhandling
the ship’s wheel to the left. Suddenly there was a creak and a snapping noise from
the bow; the ship shuddered end to end and was jerked to starboard as though caught
in the teeth of a gale. Locke felt his stomach protesting and clung to the rail with
all of his strength.
“Anchor party,” yelled Drakasha, “cut the cable!”
Locke had an excellent view of the
Dread Sovereign
, rushing down on them, scarcely a hundred yards away. He gasped to think of that
heavy ship’s bowsprit plunging like a spear into the
Orchid
or her massed crewfolk, but even as he watched, the three-master heeled over to larboard,
making a turn of her own.
Rodanov avoided a head-on collision, and Locke had to guess that was intentional;
while it might have done serious damage to the
Orchid
, it would have locked his ship precisely where Zamira could best resist his boarders,
and possibly sunk both ships sooner or later.
What happened was spectacular enough; the sea creamed white between the two vessels,
and Locke heard the protesting waves hissing like
steam baking furiously from hot coals. There was no way for the
Sovereign
or the
Orchid
to shed all their forward momentum, but they slid into each other along their sides
with a rolling cushion of water between them. The whole world seemed to shake as they
met; timbers creaked, masts shuddered, and high overhead an Orchid was pitched from
her position. She struck the
Sovereign
’s deck, becoming the first casualty of the battle.
“Spanker! Spanker!” Zamira cried, and everyone on the quarterdeck looked up in unison
as the
Orchid
’s spanker sail was unfurled in the most unseamanlike fashion possible by the small
crew detailed to it. Fluttering down to full extension, it was braced in place with
desperate speed. Ordinarily, the fore-and-aft sail would never have been placed side-on
to a wind, but in this case the stiff breeze from the east pushed against it by intention,
heaving the
Orchid
’s stern away from contact with the
Dread Sovereign
. Mumchance hauled his wheel to starboard now, trying to help the process along.
There was a series of screams and snapping noises from forward; the
Dread Sovereign
’s bowsprit was destroying or fouling much of the forward rigging, but Drakasha’s
plan seemed to be working. That bowsprit hadn’t punched a hole in the hull, and now
Rodanov’s starboard bow was the only part of his ship in contact with Drakasha’s larboard
side. From high above, Locke thought, the gods might have seen the two ships as drunken
fencers, their bowsprits crossed but doing relatively little harm as they waved about.
Unseen things clawed the air with a snakelike hiss, and Locke realized that arrows
were raining around him. The fight had well and truly begun.
“CLEVER SYRESTI bitch,” muttered Rodanov, and he crawled back to his feet after the
collision. Drakasha was using her spanker for leverage to prevent full broadside-to-broadside
contact. So be it; he had his own advantages ready to play.
“Let ’em loose!” he shouted.
A crewman standing well back from the rear of the three cages (with shield bearers
flanking him) pulled the rope that released their doors. These were set just inches
back from the collapsible section of the rail, which had been conveniently knocked
clean away when the ships met.
A trio of adult
valcona
—starving, shaken up, and pissed off beyond all measure—exploded from their confinement
shrieking like the vengeful undead. The first thing they laid eyes on was the group
of Orchids lining
up across the way. Though heavily armed and armored, Zamira’s people had no doubt
expected to repel human boarders first.