Red Seas Under Red Skies (55 page)

He quickly surveyed the ship. Thirty or forty Orchids had come aboard, and were taking control of the vessel everywhere. They were up the ratlines, with Jean and Delmastro at the wheel, tending the anchors, and guarding the thirty or so surviving
Kingfisher
crewfolk atop the forecastle deck. Under Utgar's supervision, the wounded Kingfishers and Orchids had been carried down to the waist near the starboard entry port, where Captain Drakasha and Scholar Treganne were just coming aboard. Locke hurried toward them.

“It's my arm, Scholar. Hurts something awful.” Streva used his good arm to support his injured limb as he winced and held it out for Treganne's inspection. “I think it's broken.”

“Of course it's broken, you cretinous turd,” she said, brushing past him to kneel beside a Kingfisher whose tunic was completely soaked in blood. “Keep waving it like that and it'll snap right off. Sit down.”

“But—”

“I work from worst chance to best,” Treganne muttered. She knelt on the deck beside the injured Kingfisher, using her cane to brace herself until she was on both knees. Then she gave the cane a twist. The handle separated from the cane's full length, revealing a dagger-sized blade that Treganne used to slice the sailor's tunic open. “I can move you up on my list by kicking your head a couple times. Still want prompt attention?”

“Um…no.”

“You'll keep. Piss off.”

“There you are, Ravelle.” Captain Drakasha stepped past Treganne and the injured and grabbed Locke by the shoulder. “You've done well for yourself.”

“Have I?”

“You're as useless as an ass without a hole when it comes to running a ship, but I've heard the damnedest things about how you fought just now.”

“Your sources exaggerate.”

“Well, the ship's ours and you gave us her master. Now that we've plucked our flower, we need to sip the nectar before bad weather or another ship comes along.”

“Will you be taking the
Kingfisher
as a prize?”

“No. I don't like having more than one prize crew out at a time. We'll shake her down for valuables and useful cargo.”

“Then burn her or something?”

“Of course not. We'll leave the crew stores enough to make port and watch them scamper for the horizon. You look confused.”

“No objections, Captain, it's just…not as downright bastardly as I was expecting.”

“You don't think we respect surrenders because we're kindly people, do you, Ravelle?” Drakasha grinned. “I don't have much time to explain, but it's like this. If not for those gods-damned Redeemers, these people”—she waved a hand at the injured Kingfishers waiting for Treganne's attention—“wouldn't have given or taken a scratch. Four out of five ships we take, I'd say, if they can't rig razornets and get bows ready, they just roll right over for it. They know we'll let 'em slip off with their lives once we're done. And the common sailors don't own one centira of the cargo, so why should they swallow a blade or a crossbow bolt for it?”

“I guess it does make sense.”

“To more people than us. Look at this shambles. Redeemers for security? If those maniacs hadn't been available for free, this ship wouldn't have any real guards. I guarantee it. No sense in it for the owners. These long voyages, four or five months from the far east back to Tal Verrar with spices, rare metals, wood—an owner can lose two ships out of three, and the one that arrives will pay for the two that don't. With profit to spare. And if they get the actual ship back, even sans cargo, so much the better. That's why we don't sink and burn like mad. As long as we show some restraint, and don't get too close to civilization, the folks holding the purse strings think of us as a natural hazard, like the weather.”

“So with the, ah, plucking and sipping the nectar bit, where do we start?”

“Most worthwhile thing at hand is the ship's purse,” said Drakasha. “Master keeps it for expenses. Bribes and so forth. Finding it's always a pain in the ass. Some throw it overboard; others hide it somewhere dank and unlikely. We'll probably have to slap this Nera around for a few hours before he spits truth.”

“Damnation.” Behind them, Treganne let her patient slump to the deck and began wiping her bloody hands on his breeches. “No good on this one, Captain. I can see straight through to his lungs behind the wound.”

“He's dead for sure?” said Locke.

“Well, heavens, I wouldn't know, I'm just the fucking physiker. But I heard in a bar once that dead is the
accepted
thing to be when your lungs are open to daylight,” said Treganne.

“Uh…yes. I heard the same thing. Look, will anyone else here die without your immediate full attention?”

“Not likely.”

“Captain Drakasha,” said Locke, “Master Nera has something of a soft heart. Might I take the liberty of suggesting a plan…?”

A few moments later, Locke returned to the waist, holding Antoro Nera by one arm. The man's hands had been bound behind his back. Locke gave him a good shove toward Zamira, who stood with one saber unsheathed. Behind her, Treganne worked feverishly over the corpse of the newly deceased sailor. The slashed and bloody tunic had been disposed of, and a clean one drawn over the corpse's chest. Only a small red spot now marked the lethal wound, and Treganne gave every impression that the unmoving form was still within her power to save.

Drakasha caught Nera and set her blade against his upper chest.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” she said, sliding the curved edge of her weapon toward Nera's unprotected neck. He whimpered. “Your ship's badly out of trim. Too much weight of gold. We need to find and remove the master's purse as quick as we can.”

“I, uh, don't know exactly where it is,” said Nera.

“Right. And I can teach fish to fart fire,” said Drakasha. “You get one more chance, and then I start throwing your injured overboard.”

“But…please, I was told—”

“Whoever told you anything wasn't
me
.”

“I…I don't—”

“Scholar,” said Drakasha, “can you do anything for the man you're working on?”

“He won't be dancing anytime soon,” said Treganne, “but yes, he'll pull through.”

Drakasha shifted her grip on Nera and held him by his tunic collar with her free hand. She took two steps to her right and, barely looking, drove her saber down into the dead sailor's neck. Treganne flinched backward and gave the corpse's legs a little push to make it look as though they'd kicked. Nera gasped.

“Medicine is such an uncertain business,” said Drakasha.

“In my cabin,” said Nera. “A hidden compartment by the compass above my bed. Please…please don't kill any more of—”

“I didn't, actually,” said Drakasha. She withdrew her saber from the corpse's throat, wiped it on Nera's breeches, and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Your man died a few minutes ago. My leech says she can save the rest of your injured without trouble.”

She spun Nera around, slashed the rope that bound his hands, and shoved him toward Locke with a grin. “Return him to his people, Ravelle, and then kindly relieve his secret compartment of its burden.”

“Your will, Captain.”

After that, they began taking the
Kingfisher
apart more eagerly than newlyweds tearing off layers of formal clothing in their first moment of privacy. Locke felt his fatigue vanishing as he became absorbed in what was essentially one vast robbery, for more physical material than he'd ever stolen before in his life. He was passed from duty to duty among Orchids who laughed and clowned with real spirit, but worked with haste and precision for all that.

First they snatched up anything portable and reasonably valuable—bottles of wine, Master Nera's formal wardrobe, bags of coffee and tea from the galley, and several crossbows from the
Kingfisher
's tiny armory. Drakasha herself appraised the ship's collection of navigational instruments and hourglasses, leaving Nera the bare minimum required to safely work his vessel back to port.

Next, Utgar and the boatswain scoured the flute from stem to stern, using the surviving scrub watch as mules to haul off stores and equipment of nautical use: alchemical caulk, good sail canvas, carpenter's tools, barrels of pitch, and loop after loop of new rope.

“Good shit, hey,” said Utgar, as he weighed Locke down with about fifty pounds of rope and a box of metal files. “Much too expensive in Port Prodigal. Always best to get it at what we call the broadside discount.”

Last but not least came the
Kingfisher
's cargo. All the main-deck hatch gratings were pulled, and a nearly incomprehensible network of ropes and pulleys was rigged on and between the two ships. By noon, crates and casks and oilcoth-wrapped bundles were being lighted along to the
Poison Orchid
. It was everything Nera had promised and more—turpentine, oiled witchwood, silks, crates of fine yellow wine padded with sheepskins, and barrel after barrel of bulk spices. The smell of cloves, nutmeg, and ginger filled the air; after an hour or two of work at the hoists Locke was brown with a sludge that was half sweat and half powdered cinnamon.

At the fifth hour of the afternoon Drakasha called a halt to the forcible transfusion of wealth. The
Poison Orchid
rode lower in the gleaming water and the lightened flute rolled freely, hollowed out like an insect husk about to fall from a spider's jaws. Drakasha's crew hadn't stripped her clean, of course. They left the Kingfishers their casks of water, salted meat, cheap ale, and pink-piss ration wine. They even left a few crates and parcels of valuables that were too deeply or inconveniently stowed for Drakasha's taste—nonetheless, the sack was thorough. Any land-bound merchant would have been well pleased to have a ship unloaded at the dock with such haste.

A brief ceremony was held at the taffrail of the
Kingfisher
; Zamira blessed the dead of the two vessels in her capacity as a lay priestess of Iono. Then the corpses went over the side, sewn into old canvas with Redeemer weapons weighing them down. The Redeemers themselves were then thrown overboard without a word.

“Ain't disrespectful,” said Utgar when Locke whispered to him about this. “Far as they believe, they get consecrated and blessed and all that fine stuff by their own gods the moment they die. No hard feelings if you just tip the heathens over the side afterward. Helpful thing to know if you ever have to kill a bunch of 'em again, hey?”

At last, the day's long business was truly concluded; Master Nera and his crew were released to tend to their own fortunes once again. While Drakasha's archers kept watch from their perches on the yardarms, the network of lines and fend-offs between the two ships was pulled apart. The
Poison Orchid
hauled up her boats and loosed her sails. In minutes, she was making seven or eight knots to the southwest, leaving the
Kingfisher
adrift in disarray behind her.

Locke had seen little of Jean all day, and both of them had seemed to work to studiously preserve their separation. Just as Locke had thrown himself into manual labor, Jean had remained with Delmastro on the quarterdeck. They didn't come close enough to speak again until the sun fell beneath the horizon, and the scrub watch was herded together and bound for their initiation.

3

ALL THE
new initiates and half the ship's old company were on the Merry Watch, fueled by rack after rack of the fine eastern wines they'd plucked from the
Kingfisher
. Locke recognized some of the labels and vintages. Stuff that wouldn't sell in Camorr for less than twenty crowns a bottle was being sucked down like beer, or poured into the hair of celebrating men and women, or simply spilled on deck. The Orchids, men and women alike, were mixing eagerly with the ex-Messengers now. Dice games and wrestling matches and song-circles had erupted spontaneously. Propositions spoken and unspoken were everywhere. Jabril had vanished belowdecks with a crew-woman at least an hour before.

Locke took it all in from the shadows of the starboard side, just below the raised quarterdeck. The starboard stairs weren't flush with the rail; there was space enough for a lean person to wedge comfortably between the two. “Ravelle” had been greeted warmly and eagerly enough when he'd circulated on deck, but now that he'd found a cozy exile nobody seemed to be missing him. In his hands was a large leather jack full of blue wine that was worth its weight in silver, untouched.

Across the great mass of laughing, drinking sailors, Locke could make out Jean at the ship's opposite rail. While Locke watched, the shape of a woman, much shorter, approached him from behind and reached out toward him. Locke turned away.

The water slipped past, a black gel topped with curls of faintly phosphorescent foam. The
Orchid
was setting a good pace through the night. Laden, she yielded less than before to the chop of the sea, and was parting these little waves like they were air.

“When I was a lieutenant apprentice,” said Captain Drakasha, “on my first voyage with an officer's sword, I lied to my captain about stealing a bottle of wine.”

She spoke softly. Startled, Locke looked around and saw that she was standing directly over him, at the forward quarterdeck rail.

“Not just me,” she continued. “All eight of us in the apprentices' berth. We ‘borrowed' it from the captain's private stores and should have been smart enough to pitch it over the side when we'd finished.”

“In the…navy of Syrune, this was?”

“Her Resplendent Majesty's Sea Forces of Syrune Eternal.” Drakasha's smile was a crescent of white against darkness, faint as the foam topping the waves. “The captain could have had us whipped, or reduced in rank, or even chained up for formal trial on land. Instead she had us strike down the royal yard from the mainmast. We had a spare, of course. But she made us scrape the varnish off the one we'd taken down…. This is a spar of oak, you know, ten feet long and thick as a leg. The captain took our swords and said they'd be restored if and only if we ate the royal yard. Tip to tip, every last splinter.”