The Gentleman Bastard Series 3-Book Bundle: The Lies of Locke Lamora, Red Seas Under Red Skies, The Republic of Thieves (136 page)

Some only rule when it’s time to take arms. With Drakasha … she rules because we know
she’s our best chance. At anything. They don’t fuck around in Syrune.”

“So you keep naval watches, and drink like nervous husbands, and mind your manners?”

“You don’t approve?”

“Gods’ blood, I damn well approve. It’s just tidier than I imagined, is all.”

“You wouldn’t call anything we do
naval
if you’d ever served on a real ship of war. Most of our crew have, and this is a
slacker’s paradise by comparison. We keep our habits because most of us have been
aboard other pirate ships, too. Seen the leaks that gain a little bit every day. Seen
the mechanisms rusting. Seen the rigging fraying. What good’s slacking all the time
if the ship comes apart beneath you while you sleep?”

“So you’re a prudent bunch.”

“Yeah. Look, the sea either makes you prudent, or it kills you. Drakasha’s officers
take an oath. We’re sworn that this ship goes down in battle, or by the will of the
gods. Not for want of work, or canvas, or cord. That’s a holy vow.” She stretched.
“And not for want of paint, either. Give the whole thing another coat, and look sharp
about it.”

Officers. Jean reviewed the
Orchid
’s officers as he worked, to keep his mind off Ezri. There was Drakasha, obviously.
She kept no watch but appeared when and as she saw fit. She seemed to be on deck at
least half the day, and materialized like magic when anything interesting happened.
Beneath her, Ezri … dammit, no thoughts concerning Ezri. Not now.

Mumchance, the sailing master, and his little crew of trusted wheel-hands. Drakasha
might allow ordinary crewfolk to hold the helm in steady weather, but for any operation
of skill, it was Mum and his bunch or nobody. Roughly equal with Mum were the quartermaster—currently
assigned to the
Red Messenger
—and the physiker, Treganne, who would likely never admit to being equal with anyone
who didn’t have a temple with their name on it. Drakasha had the great cabin, naturally,
and the four highest officers were allowed little closet rooms in the companionway,
canvas-walled things like his old cabin.

Then there was a carpenter, a sailmaker, a cook, and a boatswain. The only privilege
of being a petty officer seemed to be the right to boss a few other crewfolk about
from time to time. There was also a pair of … under-lieutenants, Jean supposed. Ezri
called them her watch chiefs, and they were Ezri when Ezri wasn’t around. Utgar had
the Red watch and a woman
called Nasreen led the Blue, but Jean had yet to meet her, since she’d been entrusted
with the
Messenger
’s prize crew.

It seemed that all the menial, back-and-forth mucking about was giving Jean—and the
rest of the scrub watch—the chance to learn the ship’s hierarchy, along with its layout.
He supposed that was by design.

The weather had been consistent since their capture. Steady light breezes from the
northeast, clouds that came and went like a tavern dancer’s favor, endless low waves
that made the sea gleam like a million-faceted sapphire. The sun was a pounding heat
by day, and enclosure stifled them at night, but Jean was conditioned to this work
by now. He was as brown as Paolo and Cosetta. Locke, too, seemed to be making the
best of it—tanned and bearded and genuinely wiry, for once, rather than merely slender.
His size and an unwise boast about his agility had gotten him assigned to mastslushing
duty, foremast and main, each and every morning.

Their food still came late after each long day, and though charmless it was more than
ample. They had a full liquor ration now, too. As much as Jean hated to admit it,
even to himself, he didn’t mind this turn of events so very much. He could work and
sleep in confidence that the people ruling the ship knew their business; he and Locke
no longer had to run everything on improvisation and prayer. If not for the damned
log, with its relentless record of day after day passing them by, day after day of
the antidote waning, it would have been a good time. A good and timeless interval,
with Lieutenant Delmastro to puzzle over.

But neither he nor Locke could stop counting the days.

ON THE eighteenth of Festal, Bald Mazucca snapped.

He’d given no warning; though he’d been sullen in the undercastle each night, he was
one among many tired and short-tempered men, and he’d made no further threats toward
anyone, crew or scrub watch.

It was dusk, two or three hours into the Blue watch’s duty, and lanterns were going
up across the ship. Jean was sitting next to Locke by the chicken coops, unraveling
old rope into its component yarns. Locke was shredding these into a pile of rough
brown fibers. Tarred, this stuff would become oakum, and be used for everything from
caulking seams to stuffing pillows. It was a miserably tedious job, but the sun was
almost gone and the end of duty for the day was nearly at hand.

There was a clatter from somewhere near the undercastle, followed by
swearing and laughter. Bald Mazucca stomped into sight, carrying a mop and a bucket,
with a crewman Jean didn’t recognize at his heels. The crewman said something else
that Jean didn’t catch, and then it happened—Mazucca whirled and flung the heavy bucket
at him, catching him right in the face. The crewman fell on his backside, stunned.

“Gods
damn
you,” Mazucca cried, “d’you think I’m a fuckin’ child?”

The crewman fumbled at his belt for a weapon—a short club, Jean saw. But Mazucca’s
blood was up, and the crewman was still recovering from the blow. In a moment, Mazucca
had kicked him in the chest and snatched the club for himself. He raised it above
his head, but that was as far as he got. Three or four crewfolk hit him simultaneously,
knocking him to the deck and wrestling the club from his hand.

Heavy footsteps beat rapidly from the quarterdeck to the waist. Captain Drakasha had
come without being summoned.

As she flew past, Jean—his rope work quite forgotten—felt his stomach flutter. She
had
it
. She wore it like a cloak. The same aura that he’d once seen in Capa Barsavi, something
that slept inside until it was drawn out by anger or need, so sudden and so terrible.
Death itself was beating a tread upon the ship’s planks.

Drakasha’s crewfolk had Mazucca up and pinned by the arms. The man who’d been hit
by the bucket had retrieved his club and was rubbing his head nearby. Zamira came
to a halt and pointed at him.

“Explain yourself, Tomas.”

“I was … I was … sorry, Cap’n. Just having some fun.”

“He’s been hounding me all fuckin’ afternoon,” said Mazucca, subdued but nowhere near
calm. “Hasn’t done a lick of work. Just follows me around, kicks my bucket, takes
my tools, messes up my shit and sets me to fixing it again.”

“True, Tomas?”

“I just … it was just fun, Cap’n. Teasing the scrub watch. Didn’t mean nothing. I’ll
stop.”

Drakasha moved so fast Tomas didn’t even have time to flinch until he was already
on his way back to the deck, his nose broken. Jean had noted the elegant upward sweep
of her arm and the precise use of the palm—he’d been on the receiving end of that
sort of blow at least twice in his life. Tomas, stupid ass that he was, had his sympathy.

“Agggh,” said Tomas, spraying blood.

“The scrub watch are like tools,” said Drakasha. “I expect them to be kept in a useful
trim. Maintained. You want to have fun, you make sure it’s responsible fun. I’m halving
your share of the
Red Messenger
loot, and your
share of the sale.” She gestured to the women standing behind him. “You two. Haul
him aft and find Scholar Treganne.”

As Tomas was being dragged toward the quarterdeck for a surprise visit to the ship’s
physiker, Drakasha turned to Mazucca.

“You heard my rules, first night you were on my ship.”

“I know. I’m sorry, Captain Drakasha, he just—”

“You did hear. You
did
hear what I said, and you understood.”

“I did, I was angry, I—”

“Death to touch a weapon. I made that clear as a cloudless sky, and you did it anyway.”

“Look—”

“I’ve got no use for you,” she said, and her right arm darted out to close around
Mazucca’s throat. The crewfolk released him, and he locked his hands around Drakasha’s
forearm, to no avail. She began dragging him toward the starboard rail. “Out here,
you lose your head, you make one dumb gods-damned mistake, you can take the whole
ship down. If you can’t keep your wits when you’ve been told what’s at stake, clear
and simple, you’re just ballast.”

Kicking and gagging, Mazucca tried to fight back, but Drakasha hauled him inexorably
toward the side of the weather deck. About two yards from the rail, she gritted her
teeth, drew her right arm back, and flung Mazucca forward, putting the full power
of hip and shoulder into the push. He hit hard, flailing for balance, and toppled
backward. A second later there was the sound of a splash.

“This ship has ballast enough.”

Crewfolk and scrub watch alike ran to the starboard rail. After a quick glance at
Locke, Jean got up to join them. Drakasha remained where she was, arms at her side,
her sudden rage evaporated. In that, too, she seemed like Barsavi. Jean wondered if
she would spend the rest of the night sullen and brooding, or even drinking.

The ship had been making a steady four or five knots, and Mazucca didn’t appear to
be a strong swimmer. He was already five or six yards to the side of the ship, and
fifteen or twenty yards back, off the quarterdeck. His arms and head bobbed against
the rippling darkness of the waves, and he hollered for help.

Dusk. Jean shuddered. A hungry time on the open sea. The hard light of day drove many
things deep beneath the waves, made the water nearly safe for hours on end. All that
changed at twilight.

“Shall we fish him out, Captain?” A crewman had stepped up beside her, and he spoke
in a voice so low that only those nearby could hear.

“No,” said Drakasha. She turned and began to walk slowly aft. “Sail on. Something
will be along for him soon enough.”

ON THE nineteenth, at half past noon, Drakasha shouted for Locke to come to her cabin.
Locke ran aft as fast as he could, visions of Tomas and Mazucca vivid in his mind.

“Ravelle, what the unhallowed hells
is
this?”

Locke paused to take in the scene. She’d rigged her table in the center of the cabin.
Paolo and Cosetta were seated across from one another, staring at Locke, and a deck
of playing cards was spread in an unfathomable pattern between them. A silver goblet
was tipped over in the middle of the table … a goblet too large for little hands.
Locke felt a flutter of anxiety in the pit of his stomach, but looked closer nonetheless.

As he’d suspected … a mouthful or so of pale brown liquor had spilled onto the tabletop
from the goblet, and fallen across a card. That card had dissolved into a puddle of
soft, completely unmarked gray material.

“You took the cards out of my chest,” he said. “The ones in the double-layered oilcloth
parcel.”

“Yes.”

“And you were drinking a fairly strong liquor with your meal. One of your children
spilled it.”

“Caramel brandy, and I spilled it myself.” She produced a dagger and poked at the
gray material. Although it had a liquid sheen, it was hard and solid, and the tip
of the dagger slid off it as though it were granite. “What the hell
is
this? It’s like … alchemical cement.”

“It
is
alchemical cement. You didn’t notice that the cards smelled funny?”

“Why the hell would I smell playing cards?” She frowned. “Children, don’t touch these
anymore. In fact, go sit on your bed until Mommy can wash your hands.”

“It’s not dangerous,” said Locke.

“I don’t care,” she said. “Paolo, Cosetta, put your hands in your laps and wait for
Mommy.”

“They’re not really cards,” said Locke. “They’re alchemical resin wafers. Paper-thin
and flexible. The card designs are actually painted on. You wouldn’t believe how expensive
they were.”

“Nor would I care. What the hell are they
for
?”

“Isn’t it obvious? Dip one in strong liquor and it dissolves in a few seconds.
Suddenly you’ve got a little pat of alchemical cement. Mash up as many cards as you
need. The stuff dries in about a minute, hard as steel.”

“Hard as steel?” She eyed the gray splotch on her fine lacquered tabletop. “How does
it come off?”

“Um … it doesn’t. There’s no solvent. At least not outside of an alchemist’s lab.”

“What? Gods damn it, Ravelle—”

“Captain, you’re being unfair. I didn’t ask you to take those cards out and play with
them. Nor did I spill liquor on them.”

“You’re right,” said Drakasha with a sigh. She looked tired, Locke thought. The faint
frown lines around her mouth looked as though they’d had a long recent workout. “Gather
these up and throw them overboard.”

“Captain, please.
Please
.” Locke held his hands out toward her. “Not only are they expensive, they’d be … damned
impossible to duplicate. It’d take months. Let me just roll them back up in oilcloth
and put them in the chest. Please think of them as part of my papers.”

“What do you use them for?”

“They’re just part of my little bag of tricks,” he said. “All I have left of it, really.
One last, important little trick. I swear to you, they’re absolutely no threat to
you and your ship.… You have to spill booze on them, and even then they’re just an
annoyance. Look, if you save them for me, and find me some knives with scalpel edges,
I’ll devote all my time to getting that shit off your table. Prying from the sides.
Even if it takes all week. Please.”

As it turned out, it took him ten hours, scraping away with infinite care atop the
forecastle, as though he were performing surgery. He worked without rest, first by
sunlight and then by the glow of multiple lanterns, until the devilishly hard stuff
had been scraped off with nothing but a ghost upon the lacquer to show for it.