Authors: Scott Lynch
DINNER WAS
excellent and productive. Four of Volantyne’s sailors watched from the corners of
the cabin while Locke and Jean packed away soup, chicken, bread, cake, and sparkling
apple wine. Just after
opening the second bottle, however, Locke signaled Jean that he was about to have
a clumsy moment.
Timing himself to the sway of the ship, Locke swept the new bottle off the table.
It landed awkwardly and broke open, spilling cold frothing wine across his bare feet.
Realizing that the bottle hadn’t shattered into the selection of knife-like shards
he’d hoped for, he managed to drop his wineglass as well, with more satisfactory results.
“Ah, shit, that was good stuff,” he said loudly, slipping off his chair and crouching
above the mess. He waved his hands over it, as though unsure of what to do, and in
an instant a long, sturdy piece of glass was shifted from his palm to his tunic-sleeve.
It was delicate work; a red stain beneath the cloth would surely draw attention.
“Don’t,” said one of the sailors, waving for one of his companions to go on deck.
“Don’t touch anything. We’ll get it for you.”
Locke put his hands up and took several careful steps back.
“I’d call for more wine,” said Jean, hoisting his own glass teasingly, “but it’s possible
you’ve had enough.”
“That was the motion of the ship,” said Locke.
The missing guard returned with a brush and a metal pan. He quickly swept up all the
fragments.
“We’ll scrub the deck when we give the cabin a turn tomorrow, sir,” said one of the
sailors.
“At least it smells nice,” said Locke.
The guards didn’t search him. Locke admired the deepening darkness through the cabin
window and allowed himself the luxury of a faint smirk.
When the remains of dinner were cleared (every knife and fork and spoon accounted
for) and the cabin was his and Jean’s again, Locke carefully drew out the shard of
glass and set it on the table.
“Doesn’t look like much,” said Jean.
“It needs some binding,” said Locke. “And I know just where to get it.”
While Jean leaned against the cabin door, Locke used the glass shard to carefully
worry the inside front cover of the copy of
The Republic of Thieves
. After a few minutes of slicing and peeling, he produced an irregular patch of the
binding leather and a quantity of the
cord that had gone into the spine of the volume. He nestled the glass fragment inside
the leather and wrapped it tightly around the edges, creating something like a tiny
handsaw. The leather-bound side could be safely nestled against the palm of a hand,
and the cutting edge of the shard could be worked against whatever needed slicing.
“Now,” said Locke softly, holding his handiwork up to the lantern-light and examining
it with a mixture of pride and trepidation, “shall we take a turn on deck and enjoy
the weather?”
The weather had worsened agreeably to a hard-driving autumn rain. The Amathel was
whipped up to waves of six or seven feet, and lightning flashed behind the ever-moving
clouds.
Locke and Jean, both wearing oilcloaks, settled down against the inner side of the
jolly boat lashed upside-down to the main deck. It was about fifteen feet long, of
the sort usually hung at a ship’s stern. Locke supposed that the urgent need to put
the iron bars around the windows of the great cabin had forced the crew to shift the
boat. It was secured to the deck via lines and ring-bolts; nothing that a crew of
sailors couldn’t deal with in just a few minutes, but if he and Jean tried to free
the boat conventionally it would take far too long to escape notice. Cutting was the
answer—weaken the critical lines, wait for a fortuitous roll of the ship, heave the
jolly boat loose, and then somehow join it after it pitched over the side.
Jean sat placidly while Locke worked with the all-important glass shard—five minutes,
ten minutes, twenty minutes. Locke’s oilcloak was a blessing, making it possible to
conceal the activity, but the need to hold the arm and shoulder still put all the
burden on wrist and forearm. Locke worked until he ached, then carefully passed the
shard to Jean.
“You two seem strangely heedless of the weather,” shouted Volantyne, moving past with
a lantern. He studied them, his eyes flicking here and there for anything out of place.
Eventually he relaxed, and Locke’s heart resumed its usual duties.
“We’re still warm from dinner, Captain,” said Jean. “And we’ve lived through storms
on the Sea of Brass. This is a fine diversion from the monotony of our cabin.”
“Monotony, perhaps, but also security. You may remain for now,
so long as you continue to stay out of the way. We’ll have business with the sails
soon enough. If we find ourselves much closer to shore, I shall require you to go
below.”
“Having problems?” said Locke.
“Damned nuisance of a wind from the north and the northwest—seems to veer however’s
least convenient. We’re five miles off the beach where we should be ten.”
“We are your most loyal and devoted articles of ballast, Captain,” said Locke. “Let
us digest a bit longer and maybe we’ll scuttle back inside.”
As soon as Volantyne stepped away, Locke felt Jean get back to work.
“We don’t have much time,” muttered Jean. “And one or two uncut lines are as good
as twenty; some things don’t break for any man’s strength.”
“I’ve done some real damage to my side,” said Locke. “All we can do is keep it up
as long as possible.”
The minutes passed; sailors came and went on deck, checking for faults everywhere
but directly behind the two men working desperately to cause one. The ship rolled
steadily from side to side, lightning flared on every horizon, and Locke found himself
growing more and more tense as the minutes passed. If this failed, he had no doubt
that Volantyne’s threat to seal them up in one of the holds would be carried out immediately.
“Oh, hells,” muttered Jean. “Feel that?”
“Feel what? Oh, damn.” The ship had tilted to starboard, and the weight of the jolly
boat was pressing more firmly against Locke’s back and shoulders. The lines holding
it down were starting to give way sooner than he’d expected. “What the hell do we
do now?”
“Hold on,” muttered Jean. The ship tilted to larboard, and there was the faintest
scraping noise against the deck. Locke prayed that the tumult of the weather would
drown it out for anyone not sitting directly against the boat.
Like a pendulum, the ship swung to starboard again, and this time the scraping noise
rose to a screech. The press against Locke’s back became ominous, and something snapped
loudly just behind him.
“Shit,” whispered Jean, “up and over!”
The two Gentlemen Bastards turned and scrambled over the back of the jolly boat at
the moment its restraints completely gave way. Locke and Jean rolled off the boat
with an embarrassing want of smoothness, landed hard, and the jolly boat took off
across the deck, screeching and sliding toward the starboard rail.
“Ha-ha!” Locke yelled, unable to contain himself. “We’re off!”
The jolly boat slammed against the starboard rail and came to a dead stop.
“Balls,” said Locke, not quite as loudly. An instant later, the ship heeled to larboard,
and Locke realized that he and Jean were directly in the only path the jolly boat
could take when it slid back down the tilting deck. He gave Jean a hard shove to the
left, and rolled clear the other way. A moment later the boat scraped and scudded
across the deck between them, gathering momentum as it went. Locke turned, certain
that it should go over the side this time—
With a creaking thump, the boat landed hard against the larboard rail. Although the
rail bent, it didn’t give way completely, and the upside-down boat remained very much
out of the water.
“Perelandro’s dangling cock!” Locke yelled, lurching to his feet.
“What the hells do you two think you’re doing?”
Solus Volantyne came leaping adroitly across the main deck, lantern still in hand.
“Your boat’s come free! Help us!” yelled Jean. A moment later he seemed to think better
of subterfuge, walloped Volantyne across the jaw with a right hook, and grabbed the
lantern as the captain went down.
“Jean! Behind you!” Locke yelled, dodging the boat for a second time as the deck tilted
yet again.
A crewman had come up behind Jean with a belaying pin in hand. Jean sidestepped the
man’s first attack and cracked the lantern across the top of his head. Glass shattered,
and glowing white alchemical slime sprayed across the poor fellow from forehead to
waist. It was generally harmless stuff, but nothing you wanted in your eyes. Moaning
and glowing like a ghost out of some fairy story, the man fell against the foremast.
In front of Locke, the jolly boat slid to starboard, hit the rail at
speed, crashed through with a terrible splintering noise, and went over the side.
“Thank the gods,” Locke muttered as he ran to the gap in the rail just in time to
see the boat plunge bow-first into the water, like an arrowhead, and get immediately
swallowed beneath a crashing wave. “Oh,
COME ON!
”
“Jump,” hollered Jean, ducking a swing from a crewman who came at him with an oar.
Jean slammed two punches into the unfortunate sailor’s ribs, and the man did a convincing
imitation of a marionette with its strings cut. “Get the hell in the water!”
“The boat sank!” Locke cried, scanning the darkness in vain for a glimpse of it. Whistles
were sounding from the quarterdeck and from within the ship. The whole crew would
be roused against them presently. “I don’t see it!”
“Can’t hear you. Jump!” Jean dashed across the deck and gave Locke a well-meaning
shove through the gap in the railing. There was no time to do anything but gasp in
a surprised breath; Locke’s oilcloth fluttered around him as he fell like a wounded
bat into the dark water of the Amathel.
The cold hit like a shock. He whirled within the churning blackness, fighting against
his cloak and the weight of his ankle manacles. They weren’t dragging him straight
down, but they would sharply increase the rate at which he would exhaust himself by
kicking to keep his head up.
His face broke the surface; he choked in a breath of air and freshwater spray. The
Volantyne’s Resolve
loomed over him like a monstrous shadow, lit by the shuddering light of a dozen jumping,
bobbing lanterns. A familiar dark shape detached itself from some sort of fight against
the near rail, and fell toward the water.
“Jean,” Locke sputtered, “there’s no—”
The lost boat resurfaced like a broaching shark, spat up in a gushing white torrent.
Jean landed on it facefirst with a ghastly thump and splashed heavily into the water
beside it.
“Jean,” Locke screamed, grabbing hold of one of the jolly boat’s gunwales and desperately
scanning the water for any sign of his friend. The bigger man had already sunk beneath
the surface. A wave crashed
over Locke’s head and tore at his hold on the boat. He spat water and searched desperately …
there! A dim shape drifted six or seven feet beneath Locke’s toes, lit from below
by an eerie blue-white light. Locke dove just as another breaking wave hammered the
boat.
Locke grabbed Jean by the collar and felt cold dismay at the feeble response. For
a moment it seemed that the two of them hung suspended in a gray netherworld between
lurching wave tops and ghostly light, and Locke suddenly realized the source of the
illumination around them. Not lightning or lanterns, but the unknown fires that burned
at the very bottom of the Amathel.
Glimpsed underwater, they lost their comforting jewel-like character, and seemed to
roil and pulse and blur. They stung Locke’s eyes, and his skin crawled with the unreasonable,
instinctive sensation that something utterly hostile was nearby—nearby and drawing
closer. He hooked his hands under Jean’s arms and kicked mightily, heaving the two
of them back toward the surface and the storm.
He scraped his cheek against the jolly boat as he came up, sucked in a deep breath,
and heaved at Jean again to get the larger man’s head above water. The cold was like
a physical pressure, numbing Locke’s fingers and slowly turning his limbs to lead.
“Come back to me, Jean,” Locke spat. “I know your brains are jarred, but Crooked Warden,
come back!” He yanked at Jean, holding on to the gunwale of the wave-tossed boat with
his other hand, and for all his pains succeeded only in nearly capsizing it again.
“Shit!”
Locke needed to get in first, but if he let Jean go Jean would probably sink again.
He spotted the rowing lock, the U-shaped piece of cast iron set into the gunwale to
hold an oar. It had been smashed by the boat’s slides across the deck, but it might
serve a new purpose. Locke seized Jean’s oilcloak and twisted one end into a crude
knot around the bent rowing lock, so that Jean hung from the boat by his neck and
chest. Not a sensible way to leave him, but it would keep him from drifting away while
Locke got aboard.
A fresh wave knocked the side of the boat against Locke’s head. Black spots danced
before his eyes, but the pain goaded him to furious action. He plunged into the blackness
beneath the boat, then clawed his way up to the gunwale on the opposite side. Another
wave struck, and out of its froth Locke scrabbled and strained until he was over the
edge. He bounced painfully off a rowing bench and flopped into the ankle-deep water
sloshing around the bottom.
Locke reached over the side and grabbed Jean. His heaving was desperate, unbalanced,
and useless. The little boat bobbled and shook with every effort, rising and falling
on the waves like a piston in some nightmarish machine. At last Locke’s wits punched
through the walls of his exhaustion and panic. He turned Jean sideways and hauled
him in a foot and an arm at a time, using his oilcloak for added leverage. Once he
was safely in, the bigger man coughed and mumbled and flopped around.