Authors: Scott Lynch
Ydrena dead; gods-damn it, his first mate for five years, on the bloody deck. He’d
laid about with his club to get to her side, splintering shields and beating aside
spears. At least half a dozen Orchids to him, and he’d been their match—Dantierre
he’d knocked clean over the side. But the fighting space was too narrow, the rolling
of the ships unpredictable, his crewfolk too thin around him. Zamira’d suffered miserably,
but at this confined point of contact he was stymied. A lack of brawling at the
Orchid
’s stern meant that the boats had probably fared the same. Shit. Half his crew was
gone, at least. It was time to spring his second surprise. His calling a halt to the
battle was the signal to bring it on. All in, now—last game, last hand, last turn
of the cards.
“Zamira, don’t make me destroy your ship!”
“GO TO hell, you oath-breaking son of a bitch! You come try again, if you think you
still have any crewfolk willing to die in a hurry!”
Locke had left Jabril, Mumchance, and Mumchance’s mate—along with the death-lanterns,
he supposed—to guard the stern. He and Jean hurried forward, through the strangeness
of air suddenly free from arrows, past the mounds of dead and wounded. Scholar Treganne
stumped past, her false leg loud against the desk, single-handedly dragging Rask behind
her. At the waist, Utgar stood, using a hook to pull up the main-deck cargo hatch
grating. A leather satchel was at his feet; Locke presumed he was on some business
for the captain and ignored him.
They found Drakasha and Delmastro at the bow, with about twenty surviving Orchids
staring at twice their number of Sovereigns across the way. Ezri hugged Jean fiercely;
she looked as though she’d been through a great deal of blood but not yet lost any
of her own. Up here the
Orchid
seemed to have no deck; only a surface layer of dead and nearly dead. Blood drained
off the sides in streams.
“Not me,” shouted Rodanov.
“Here,” yelled Utgar at the
Orchid
’s waist. “Here, Drakasha!”
Locke turned to see Utgar holding a gray sphere, perhaps eight inches in diameter,
with a curiously greasy surface. He cradled it in his left hand, holding it over the
open cargo hatch, and his right hand clutched something sticking out of the top of
the sphere.
“Utgar,” said Drakasha, “what the hell do you think you’re—”
“Don’t make a fucking move, right? Or you know what I’ll do with this thing.”
“Gods above,” whispered Ezri, “I don’t believe this.”
“What the hell is that?” Locke asked.
“Bad news,” she said. “Fucking awful news. That’s a shipbane sphere.”
JEAN LISTENED as she explained quickly.
“Alchemy, black alchemy, expensive as hell. You have to be fucking crazy to bring
one to sea, same reason most captains shy away from fire-oil. But worse. Whole thing
goes white-hot. You can’t touch it; can’t get close. Leave it on deck and it burns
right through; down into the innards, and it sets
anything
on fire. Hell, it can probably set water on fire. Sure doesn’t go out when you douse
it.”
“Utgar,” said Drakasha, “you
motherfucker
, you traitor, how could—”
“Traitor? No. I’m Rodanov’s man; am and have been since before I joined. His idea,
hey? If I’ve done you good service, Drakasha, I’ve just been doing my job.”
“Have him shot,” said Jean.
“That thing he’s holding is the twist-match fuse,” said Ezri. “He moves his right
hand, or we kill him and make that thing drop, it comes right out and ignites.
This
is what those damned things are for, get it? One man can hold a hundred prisoner
if he just stands in the right spot.”
“Utgar,” she said. “Utgar, we’re winning this fight.”
“You might’ve been. Why do you think I stepped in?”
“Utgar, please. This ship is heaped with wounded. My children are down there!”
“Yeah. I know. So you’d best lay down your arms, hey? Back up against the starboard
rail. Archers down from the masts. Everybody calm—and I’m sure for everyone but you,
Drakasha, there’s a happy arrangement waiting.”
“Throats cut and over the side,” shouted Treganne, who appeared at the top of the
companionway with a crossbow in her hands. “That’s the happy arrangement, isn’t it,
Utgar?” She stumped to the quarterdeck rail and put the crossbow to her shoulder.
“This ship
is
heaped with wounded, and they’re my responsibility, you bastard!”
“Treganne,
no
,” Drakasha screamed.
But the scholar’s deed was already done; Utgar seemed to jump and shudder as the bolt
sank into the small of his back. The gray sphere tipped forward and fell from his
left hand; his right hand pulled away, trailing a thin white cord. He toppled to the
deck, and his device vanished from sight into the hold below.
“Oh,
hell
,” said Jean.
“No, no, no,” Ezri whispered.
“Children,” Jean found himself saying. “I can get them—”
Ezri stared at the cargo hatch, aghast. She looked at him, then back to the hatch.
“Not just them,” she said. “Whole ship.”
“I’ll go,” said Jean.
She grabbed him, wrapped her arms around his neck so tightly he could barely breathe,
and whispered in his ear, “Gods damn you, Jean Tannen. You make this … you make it
so hard.”
And then she hit him in the stomach, harder than even he had thought possible. He
fell backward, doubled in agony, realizing her intentions as she
released him. He screamed in wordless rage and denial, reaching for her. But she was
already running across the deck toward the hatch.
LOCKE KNOWS what Ezri means to do the instant he sees her make a fist, but Jean, his
reflexes dulled by love or fatigue or both, plainly doesn’t. And before Locke can
do anything, she’s hit Jean, and given him a shove backward so that Locke tumbles
over him. Locke looks up just in time to see Ezri jump into the cargo hold, where
an unnatural orange glare rises from the darkness a second later.
“Oh, Crooked Warden, damn it all to hell,” he whispers, and he sees everything as
time slows like cooling syrup—
Treganne at the quarterdeck rail, dumbfounded; clearly ignorant of what her erstwhile
good deed has done.
Drakasha stumbling forward, sabers still in her hands, moving too slowly to stop Ezri
or join her.
Jean crawling, barely able to move but willing himself after her with any muscle that
will lend him force, one hand reaching uselessly after a woman already gone.
The crew of both ships staring, leaning on their weapons and on one another, the fight
for a moment forgotten.
Utgar reaching for the bolt in his back, flailing feebly. It has been five seconds
since Ezri leapt down into the cargo hold. Five seconds is when the screaming, the
new screaming, starts.
SHE EMERGED from the main-deck stairs, holding it in her hands. No, more than that,
Locke realized with horror—she must have known her hands wouldn’t last. She must have
cradled it close for that very reason.
The sphere was incandescent, a miniature sun, burning with the vivid colors of molten
silver and gold. Locke felt the heat against his skin from thirty feet away, recoiled
from the light, smelled the strange tang of scorched metal instantly. She ran, as
best she could run; as she made her way toward the rail it became a jog, and then
a desperate hop. She was on fire all the way, screaming all the way, unstoppable all
the way.
She made it to the larboard rail and with one last convulsive effort, as much back
and legs as what was left of her arms, she heaved the shipbane
sphere across the gap to the
Dread Sovereign
. It grew in brightness even as it flew, a molten-metal comet, and Rodanov’s crewfolk
recoiled from it as it landed on their deck.
You couldn’t touch such a thing, she’d said—well, clearly you could. But Locke knew
you couldn’t touch it and live. The arrow that took her in the stomach an eyeblink
later was too late to beat her throw, and too late to do any real work. She fell to
the deck, trailing smoke, and then all hell broke loose for the last time that morning.
“Rodanov,” yelled Drakasha. “Rodanov!”
There was an eruption of light and fire at the waist of the
Dread Sovereign
; the incandescent globe, rolling to and fro, had at last burst. White-hot alchemy
rained down hatches, caught sails, engulfed crewfolk, and nearly bisected the ship
in seconds.
“If they would burn the
Sovereign
,” shouted Rodanov, “all hands take the
Orchid
!”
“Fend off,” cried Drakasha, “fend off and repel boarders! Helm hard a-larboard, Mum!
Hard a-larboard!”
Locke could feel a growing new heat against his right cheek; the
Sovereign
was already doomed, and if the
Orchid
didn’t disentangle from her shrouds and bowsprit and assorted debris, the fire would
take both ships for a meal. Jean crawled slowly toward Ezri’s body. Locke heard the
sounds of new fighting breaking out behind them, and thought briefly of paying attention
to it, but then realized that if he left Jean now he would never forgive himself.
Or deserve forgiveness.
“Dear gods,” he whispered when he saw her, “please, no. Oh, gods.”
Jean moaned, sobbing, his hands held out above her. Locke didn’t know where he would
have touched her, either. There was so little
her
left—skin and clothing and hair burnt into one awful texture. And still she moved,
trying feebly to rise. Still she fought for something resembling breath.
“Valora,” said Scholar Treganne, hobbling toward them. “Valora don’t, don’t touch—”
Jean pounded the deck and screamed. Treganne knelt beside what was left of Ezri, pulling
a dagger from her belt sheath. Locke was startled to see tears trailing down her cheeks.
“Valora,” she said. “Take this. She’s dead already. She needs you, for the gods’ sake.”
“No,” sobbed Jean. “No, no, no—”
“Valora,
look at her
, gods damn it. She is beyond all help. Every second is an hour to her and she is
praying
for this knife.”
Jean snatched the knife from Treganne’s hand, wiped a tunic sleeve across his eyes,
and shuddered. Gasping deep breaths despite the terrible smell of burning that lingered
in the air, he moved the knife toward her, jerking in time with his sobs like a man
with palsy. Treganne placed her hands over his to steady them, and Locke closed his
eyes.
Then it was over.
“I’m sorry,” said Treganne. “Forgive me, Valora. I didn’t know—I didn’t know what
that thing was, what Utgar had. Forgive me.”
Jean said nothing. Locke opened his eyes again, and saw Jean rising as though in a
trance, his sobs all but stifled, the dagger still held loosely in his hand. He moved,
as though he saw nothing of the battle still raging behind him, across the deck toward
Utgar.
TEN MORE Orchids fell at the bow saving them, following Zamira’s orders, shoving with
all their might against the
Sovereign
with spears and boat hooks and halberds. Shoving to get her bowsprit and rigging
clear of the
Orchid
, while Rodanov’s survivors at the bow fought like demons to escape. But they did
it, with Mumchance’s help, and the two battered ships tore apart at last.
“All hands,” shouted Zamira, dazed by the effort it suddenly required. “All hands!
Tacks and braces! Put us west before the wind! Fire party to main hold! Get the wounded
aft to Treganne!” Assuming Treganne was alive, assuming … much. Sorrow later. More
hardship now.
Rodanov hadn’t joined the final fight to board the
Orchid
; Zamira had last seen him running aft, fighting his way through the blaze and headed
for the wheel. Whether in a last hopeless effort to save his ship or destroy hers,
he’d failed.
“HELP,” UTGAR whispered. “Help. Get it out. I can’t reach it.”
His movements were faint, and his eyes were going glassy. Jean knelt beside him, stared
at him, and then brought the dagger down overhand into his back. Utgar took a shocked
breath; Jean brought the knife down again and again while Locke watched; until Utgar
was most certainly dead, until his back was covered in wounds, until Locke finally
reached over and grabbed him by the wrist.
“Jean—”
“It doesn’t help,” said Jean, in a disbelieving voice. “Gods, it doesn’t help.”
“I know,” said Locke. “I know.”
“Why didn’t you stop her?” Jean launched himself at Locke, pinning him to the deck,
one hand around his throat. Locke gagged and fought back, and it did him about as
much good as he expected.
“Why didn’t you stop her
?”
“I tried,” said Locke. “She pushed you into me. She knew what we’d do, Jean. She knew.
Please—”
Jean released him and sat back as quickly as he had attacked. He looked down at his
hands and shook his head. “Oh, gods, forgive me. Forgive me, Locke.”
“Always,” said Locke. “Jean, I am so, so sorry—I wouldn’t, I wouldn’t have had it
happen for the world. For the
world
, do you hear me?”
“I do,” he said quietly. He buried his face in his hands and said nothing more.
To the southeast, the fire aboard the
Dread Sovereign
turned the sea red; it roared up the masts and sails, rained charred canvas like
volcanic ash upon the waves, devoured the hull, and at last subsided into a billowing
mountain of smoke and steam as the ship’s charred hulk slipped beneath the waters.
“Ravelle,” said Drakasha, placing a hand on Locke’s shoulder and interrupting his
reverie, “if you can help, I—”
“I’m fine,” said Locke, stumbling to his feet. “I can help. Just maybe … leave Jerome—”
“Yes,” she said. “Ravelle, we need—”
“Zamira, enough. Enough Ravelle this, Kosta that. Around the crew, sure. But my friends
call me Locke.”