The Gentleman Bastard Series 3-Book Bundle: The Lies of Locke Lamora, Red Seas Under Red Skies, The Republic of Thieves (126 page)

“Hard to believe we’re actually doing this.”

“I know. Barely seems real yet. Captain Ravelle. First Mate Valora. Hell, you’ve got
it easy. I’ve got to get used to people calling me ‘Orrin.’ You get to stay a ‘Jerome.’ ”

“I saw little sense in making things harder for myself. I’ve got you to do that for
me.”

“Careful, now. I can order you whipped at the rail.”

“Ha! A navy captain, maybe. A pirate first mate doesn’t have to stand for that.” Jean
sighed. “You think we’ll ever see land again?”

“I damn well mean to,” said Locke. “We’ve got pirates to piss off, a happy return
to arrange, Stragos to humble, antidotes to find, and Requin to rob blind. Two months
at sea and I may even begin to have the faintest notion
how
.”

They stared for a while at Tal Verrar sliding away behind them, at the aura of the
Golden Steps and the torch-glow of the Sinspire slowly vanishing behind the darker
mass of the city’s southwestern crescent. Then they were passing through the navigational
channel in the glass reefs, away to the Sea of Brass, away to danger and piracy. Away
to find war and bring it back for the archon’s convenience.

“SAIL AHOY! Sail two points off the larboard bow!”

The cry filtered down from above on the third morning of their voyage south. Locke
sat in his cabin, regarding his blurry reflection in the dented little mirror he’d
packed in his chest. Before departure, he’d used a bit of alchemy from his disguise
kit to restore his hair to its natural color, and
now a fine shadow in much the same shade was appearing on his cheeks. He wasn’t yet
sure if he’d shave it, but with the shout from above, his concern for his beard vanished.
In a moment he was out of the cabin, up the awkward steps of the dim companionway,
and into the bright light of morning on the quarterdeck.

A haze of high white clouds veiled the blue sky, like wisps of tobacco smoke that
had drifted far from the pipes of their progenitors. They’d had the wind on their
larboard beam since reaching open sea, and the
Red Messenger
was heeled over slightly to starboard. The constant swaying and creaking and deck-slanting
were utterly alien to Locke, who’d been confined to a cabin by infirmity on his last—and
only previous—sea voyage. He flattered himself that the trained agility of a thief
went some way toward feigning sea legs, but he avoided scampering around too much,
just in case. At least he appeared to be immune to seasickness this time out, and
for that he thanked the Crooked Warden fervently. Many aboard had not been so lucky.

“What passes, Master Caldris?”

“Compliments of a fine morning, Captain, and the masthead watch says we got white
canvas two points off the larboard bow.”

Caldris had the wheel to himself this morning, and he drew light puffs from a cheap
sheaf of cut-rate tobacco that stank like sulfur. Locke wrinkled his nose.

Sighing inwardly and stepping with as much care as he could manage, Locke brought
out his seeing glass and hurried forward, up the forecastle and to the rail on the
larboard bow. Yes, there it was—hull down, a minute speck of white, barely visible
above the dark blue of the distant horizon. When he returned to the quarterdeck, Jabril
and several other sailors were lounging around, waiting for his verdict.

“Do we give her the eyeball, Captain?” Jabril seemed merely expectant, but the men
behind him looked downright eager.

“Looking for an early taste of those equal shares, eh?” Locke feigned deep consideration,
turning toward Caldris long enough to catch the sailing master’s private signal for
an emphatic no. As Locke had expected—and he could give legitimate reasons without
prompting.

“Can’t do it, lads. You know better than that. We’ve not yet begun to set our own
ship to rights; little sense in taking a fight to someone else’s. A quarter of us
are still unfit for work, let alone battle. We’ve got fresh food, a clean ship, and
all the time in the world. Better chances will come. Hold course, Master Caldris.”

“Hold course, aye.”

Jabril accepted this; Locke was discovering that the man had a solid core of sense
and a fair knowledge of nearly every aspect of shipboard life, which made him Locke’s
superior in that wise. He was a fine mate, another bit of good fortune to be grateful
for. The men behind Jabril, now … Locke instinctively knew they needed some occupying
task to help mitigate their disappointment.

“Streva,” he said to the youngest, “heave the log aft. Mal, you mind the minute-glass.
Report to Master Caldris. Jabril, you know how to use a recurved bow?”

“Aye, Captain. Shortbow, recurved, longbow. Decent aim with any.”

“I’ve got ten of them in a locker down in the aft hold. Should be easy to find. Couple
hundred arrows, too. Rig up some archery butts with canvas and straw. Mount them at
the bow so nobody gets an unpleasant surprise in the ass. Start sharpening up the
lads in groups, every day when the weather allows. Time comes to finally pay a visit
to another ship, I’ll want good archers in the tops.”

“Fine idea, Captain.”

That, at least, seemed to restore excitement to the sailors who were still milling
near the quarterdeck. Most of them followed Jabril down a hatchway to the main deck.
Their interest in the matter gave Locke a further thought.

“Master Valora!”

Jean was with Mirlon, their cook, scrutinizing something at the little brick firebox
abutting the forecastle. He waved in acknowledgment of Locke’s shout.

“By sunset I want to know that every man aboard knows where all the weapons lockers
are. Make sure of it yourself.”

Jean nodded and returned to whatever he was doing. By Locke’s reckoning, the idea
that Captain Ravelle wanted every man to be comfortable with the ship’s weapons—aside
from the bows, there were hatchets, sabers, clubs, and a few polearms—would be far
better for morale than the thought that he would prefer keeping them locked up or
hidden.

“Well done,” said Caldris quietly.

Mal watched the last few grains in the minute-glass bolted to the mainmast run out,
then turned aft and shouted, “Hold the line!”

“Seven and a half knots,” Streva hollered a moment later.

“Seven and a half,” said Caldris. “Very well. We’ve been making that more or less
steady since we left Verrar. A good run.”

Locke snuck a glance at the pegs sunk into the holes on Caldris’ navigational board,
and the compass in the binnacle, which showed them on a heading just a hairsbreadth
west of due south.

“A fine pace if it holds,” muttered Caldris around his cigar. “Puts us in the Ghostwinds
maybe two weeks from today. Don’t know about the captain, but getting a few days ahead
of schedule makes me
very
bloody comfortable.”

“And will it hold?” Locke spoke as softly as he could without whispering into the
sailing master’s ear.

“Good question. Summer’s end’s an odd time on the Sea of Brass; we got storms out
there somewhere. I can feel it in my bones. They’re a ways off, but they’re waiting.”

“Oh, splendid.”

“We’ll make do, Captain.” Caldris briefly removed his cigar, spat something brown
at the deck, and returned it to between his teeth. “Fact is, we’re doing just fine,
thank the Lord of the Grasping Waters.”

“KILL ’IM, Jabril! Get ’im right in the fuckin’ ’eart!”

Jabril stood amidships, facing a frock coat (donated from Locke’s chest) nailed to
a wide board and propped up against the mainmast, about thirty feet away. Both of
his feet touched a crudely chalked line on the deck planks. In his right hand was
a throwing knife, and in his left was a full wine bottle, by the rules of the game.

The sailor who’d been shouting encouragement burped loudly and started stomping the
deck. The circle of men around Jabril picked up the rhythm and began clapping and
chanting, slowly at first, then faster and faster. “Don’t spill a drop! Don’t spill
a drop! Don’t spill a
drop
! Don’t spill a
drop! Don’t spill a drop
!”

Jabril flexed for the crowd, wound up, and flung the knife. It struck dead center
in the coat, and up went a cheer that quickly turned to howls. Jabril had sloshed
some of the wine out of the bottle.

“Dammit!” he cried.

“Wine-waster,”
shouted one of the men gathered around him, with the fervor of a priest decrying
the worst sort of blasphemy. “Pay the penalty and put it where it belongs!”

“Hey, at least I hit the coat,” said Jabril with a grin. “You nearly killed someone
on the quarterdeck with your throw.”

“Pay the price! Pay the price! Pay the price!” chanted the crowd.

Jabril put the bottle to his lips, tipped it all the way up, and began to guzzle it
in one go. The chanting rose in volume and tempo as the amount of wine in the bottle
sank. Jabril’s neck and jaw muscles strained mightily, and he raised his free hand
high into the air as he sucked the last of the dark red stuff down.

The crowd applauded. Jabril pulled the bottle from his lips, lowered his head, and
sprayed a mouthful of wine all over the man closest to him. “Oh no,” he cried, “I
spilled
a drop! Ah ha ha ha ha!”

“My turn,” said the drenched sailor. “I’m gonna lose on purpose and spill a drop right
back, mate!”

Locke and Caldris watched from the starboard rail of the quarterdeck. Caldris was
taking a rare break from the wheel; Jean currently had it. They were sailing along
in a calm, muggy dusk just pleasant enough for Caldris to separate himself from the
ship’s precious helm by half a dozen paces.

“This was a good idea,” said Locke.

“Poor bastards have been under the boot for so long, they deserve a good debauch.”
Caldris was smoking a pale blue ceramic pipe, the finest and most delicate thing Locke
had ever seen in his hands, and his face was lit by the soft glow of embers.

At Caldris’ suggestion, Locke had had large quantities of wine and beer (the
Red Messenger
was amply provisioned with both, and for a crew twice this size) hauled up on deck,
and he’d offered a choice of indulgences to every man on board. A double ration of
fresh roasted pork—courtesy of the small but well-larded pig they’d brought with them—for
those who would stay sober and on watch, and a drunken party for those who wouldn’t.
Caldris, Jean, and Locke were sober, of course, along with four hands who’d chosen
the pork.

“It’s things like this that makes a ship seem like home,” said Caldris. “Help you
forget what a load of tedious old shit life out here can be.”

“It’s not so bad,” said Locke, a bit wistfully.

“Aye, says the captain of the fuckin’ ship, on a night sent by the gods.” He drew
smoke and blew it out over the rail. “Well, if we can arrange a few more nights like
this, it’ll be bloody grand. Quiet moments are worth more than whips and manacles
for discipline, mark my words.”

Locke gazed out across the black waves and was startled to see a pale white-green
shape, glowing like an alchemical lantern, leap up from the waves and splash back
down a few seconds later. The arc of its passage left an iridescent afterimage when
he blinked.

“Gods,” he said, “what the hell is
that
?”

There was a fountain of the things, now, about a hundred yards from
the ship. They flew silently after one another, appearing and disappearing above the
surf, casting their ghostly light on black water that returned it like a mirror.

“You really are new to these waters,” said Caldris. “Those are flit-wraiths, Kosta.
South of Tal Verrar, you see ’em all about. Sometimes in great schools, or arches
leapin’ over the water. Over ships. They’ve been known to follow us about. But only
after dark, mind you.”

“Are they some kind of fish?”

“Nobody rightly knows,” said Caldris. “Flit-wraiths can’t be caught. They can’t be
touched
, as I hear it. They fly right through nets, like they was ghosts. Maybe they are.”

“Eerie,” said Locke.

“You get used to ’em after a few years,” said Caldris. He drew smoke from his pipe,
and the orange glow strengthened momentarily. “The Sea of Brass is a damned strange
place, Kosta. Some say it’s haunted by the Eldren. Most say it’s just plain haunted.
I’ve seen things. Saint Corella’s fire, burnin’ blue and red up on the yardarms, scaring
the piss outta the top-watch. I sailed over seas like glass and seen … a city, once.
Down below, not kidding. Walls and towers, white stone. Plain as day, right beneath
our hull. In waters that our charts put at a thousand fathoms. Real as my nose it
was, then gone.”

“Heh,” said Locke, smiling. “You’re pretty good at this. You don’t have to toy with
me, Caldris.”

“I’m not toying with you one bit, Kosta.” Caldris frowned, and his face took on a
sinister cast in the pipe-light. “I’m telling you what to expect. Flit-wraiths is
just the beginning. Hell, flit-wraiths is almost friendly. There’s things out there
even I have trouble believing. And there’s places no sensible ship’s master will ever
go. Places that are … wrong, somehow. Places that
wait
for you.”

“Ah,” said Locke, recalling his desperate early years in the old and rotten places
of Camorr, and a thousand looming, broken buildings that had seemed to wait in darkness
to swallow small children. “Now there I grasp your meaning.”

“The Ghostwind Isles,” said Caldris, “well, they’re the worst of all. In fact, there’s
only eight or nine islands human beings have actually set foot on, and come back to
tell about it. But gods know how many more are hiding down there, under the fogs,
or what the fuck’s on ’em.” He paused before continuing. “You ever hear of the three
settlements of the Ghostwinds?”

“I don’t think so,” said Locke.

“Well.” Caldris took another long puff on his pipe. “Originally there was
three. Settlers out of Tal Verrar touched there about a hundred years ago. Founded
Port Prodigal, Montierre, and Hope-of-Silver.