The Gentleman Bastard Series 3-Book Bundle: The Lies of Locke Lamora, Red Seas Under Red Skies, The Republic of Thieves (160 page)

“IF THERE’S one thing I never particularly need to do again in my life,” said Locke,
“it’s dangle here all day painting this bloody ship’s ass.”

At the third hour of the afternoon the next day, Locke and Jean were hanging from
crude rope swings secured to the
Poison Orchid
’s taffrail. Now that last night’s hasty coat of dark paint had forever blotted out
the
Chimera
, they were laboriously christening the ship with a new moniker,
Delight
. Their hands and tunics were spattered with thick silver gobs.

They had gotten as far as
Delig
, and Paolo and Cosetta were making faces at them through the stern windows of Zamira’s
cabin.

“I think piracy’s a bit like drinking,” said Jean. “You want to stay out all night
doing it, you pay the price the next day.”

The
Orchid
had turned north that morning a comfortable forty or fifty miles west of the city;
Drakasha had cleared the area of their
Pilchard
raid with haste, and decided to spend the day at a remove, brushing up her old wooden
girl’s new disguise. Or, more accurately, turning that duty over to Locke and Jean.

They finally managed to put the “light” into
Delight
around the fourth hour of the afternoon. Thirsty and sun-baked, they were hauled
up to the quarterdeck by Delmastro, Drakasha, and Nasreen. After they’d gulped down
proffered mugs of lukewarm cask water, Drakasha beckoned for them to follow her down
to her cabin.

“Last night was well done,” she said. “Well done and nicely confusing. I don’t doubt
the archon will be rather vexed.”

“I’d pay something to be a fly on a tavern wall in Tal Verrar these next few days,”
said Locke.

“But it’s also given me a thought, on our general strategy.”

“Which is?”

“You told me that captain and crew of the ketch weren’t Verrari—that will curb some
of the impact of their story. There’ll be questions about their reliability. Ignorant
rumors and mutterings.”

“Right …”

“So what we’ve just done will fester,” said Zamira. “It will cause comment, speculation,
and a great deal of aggravation to Stragos, but it won’t cause a panic, or have the
Verrari rioting in the streets for his intercession. In a way, as our first bit of
piracy on his behalf, it’s a bit of a botch job.”

“You wound our professional pride,” said Jean.

“And my own! But consider this … perhaps what we need is a string of similarly botched
jobs.”

“This sounds like it’s going to have a very entertaining explanation,” said Locke.

“Del told me this afternoon that you two are pinning your hopes for a solution on
Stragos’ personal alchemist; that you can somehow secure his assistance by making
him a private offer.”

“That’s true enough,” said Locke. “It’s one of the aspects of last night’s visit to
the Mon Magisteria that didn’t go very well.”

“So obviously what we need to do,” said Drakasha, “is give you another chance to make
this alchemist’s acquaintance. Another plausible reason to visit the Mon Magisteria,
soon. Good little servants, eager to hear their master’s opinion on how their work
is progressing.”

“Ahhh,” said Locke. “And if he’s looking to shout at us, we can be sure he’ll at least
let us in for a chat.”

“Exactly. So. What we need to do … is something colorful. Something striking, something
that is
undeniably
a sincere example of our best efforts on Stragos’ behalf. But … it can’t threaten
Tal Verrar directly. Not to the point that Stragos would feel it a useful step in
his intended direction.”

“Hmmm,” said Jean. “Striking. Colorful. Nonthreatening. I’m not entirely sure these
concepts blend well with the piratical life.”

“Kosta,” said Drakasha, “you’re staring at me very strangely. Do you have an idea,
or did I leave you out in the sun for too long today?”

“Striking, colorful, and not threatening Tal Verrar
directly
,” Locke whispered. “Gods! Captain Drakasha, you would so honor me if you would consent
to one humble suggestion.…”

MOUNT AZAR was quiet this morning, the twenty-fifth of Aurim, and the sky above Salon
Corbeau was blue as a river’s depths, unmarked by the
old volcano’s gray smoke. It was another mild winter on the northern Brass Coast,
in a climate more reliable than Verrari clockwork.

“New swells coming in,” said Zoran, chief dock attendant of the morning watch.

“I don’t see any more waves than what we already got.” Giatti, his more junior counterpart,
stared earnestly across the harbor.

“Not swells, you idiot,
swells
. Gentlefolk. The landed and larded class.” Zoran adjusted his olive-green tabard
and brushed it clean, wishing that he didn’t have to wear Lady Saljesca’s damned felt
hat. It made him look taller, but it generated sweat without keeping it out of his
eyes.

Beyond the natural rock walls of Salon Corbeau’s harbor, a stately new brig, a two-master
with a dark witchwood hull, had joined the two Lashani feluccas at anchor in the gentle
sea. A longboat was coming in from the newcomer; four or five of the quality rowed
by a dozen oarsmen.

As the longboat pulled up alongside the dock, Giatti bent down and began uncoiling
a rope from one of the dock pilings. When the bow of the boat was secure, Zoran stepped
to its side, bowed, and extended his hand to the first young woman to rise from her
seat.

“Welcome to Salon Corbeau,” he said. “How are you styled, and how must you be announced?”

The short young woman, unusually tanned for someone of her station, smiled prettily
as she took Zoran’s hand. She wore a forest-green jacket over a matching set of frilled
skirts; the color set her curly, chestnut-colored hair off rather well. She seemed
to be wearing rather less makeup and jewelry than might be expected, however. A poorer
relative of whoever owned the ship?

“Forgive me, madam, but I must know whom I’m announcing.” She stepped safely onto
the dock, and he released his grip on her hand. To his surprise, she didn’t release
hers, and in one smooth motion she was up against him with the menacing weight of
a blackened-steel dagger touching the crook of his thigh. He gasped.

“Heavily armed pirates, party of ninety-eight,” the woman said. “Scream or fight back
and you’re going to be one surprised eunuch.”

“STAY CALM,” said Delmastro as Locke led Jean, Streva, Jabril, and Big Konar up onto
the dock. “We’re all friends here. Just a wealthy family coming up for a visit to
your lovely little village. City. Thing.” She kept her knife between herself and the
older dock attendant, so there was no chance of
anyone seeing it from more than a few feet away. Konar took the younger dock attendant,
placing one arm around his shoulder as though they knew each other, and muttered something
into his ear that made the color drain from the poor fellow’s face.

Slowly, carefully, the Orchids all made their way onto the dock. At the heart of the
group, those wearing layers of fine clothing tried not to make too much noise, laden
down as they were with an arsenal of clattering weapons beneath their cloaks and skirts.
It had been too much to suppose that the dock attendants wouldn’t notice sabers and
hatchets in the belts of the rowers.

“Here we are, then,” said Locke.

“Looks like a nice place,” said Jean.

“Looks are most assuredly deceiving. Now we just wait for the captain to get things
started.”

“EXCUSE ME? Excuse me, sir?”

Zamira Drakasha, alone in the
Orchid
’s smallest boat, stared up at the bored-looking guard behind the ornamented gunwale
of the yacht closest to her ship. That yacht, about fifteen yards long, had a single
mast and banks of four oars per side. Those oars were locked upward now, poised like
the wings of a stuffed and mounted bird. Just abaft the mast was a tent-like pavilion
with faintly fluttering silk walls. This tent was between the guard and the mainland.

The guard peered down at her, squinting. Zamira was wearing a thick, shapeless yellow
dress that was almost a robe. She’d left her hat in her cabin, and pulled the bangles
and ribbons out of her hair.

“What do you want?”

“My mistress has left me to tend to chores on her ship, while she takes her pleasure
ashore,” said Zamira. “I have several heavy things to move, and I was wondering if
I could beg for your help.”

“You want me to come over there and be a mule for you?”

“It would be so kind of you.”

“And, ah, what are you prepared to do in exchange?”

“Why, offer my heartfelt thanks to the gods for your goodness,” said Zamira, “or perhaps
I could brew you some tea?”

“You have a cabin over there?”

“Yes, by the kindness of my mistress—”

“A few minutes alone with you and that mouth of yours, and I’d be happy to move your
shit for you.”

“How … how
inappropriate
! My mistress will—”

“Who’s your mistress, then?”

“The Lady-in-Becoming Ezriane de la Mastron, of Nicora—”

“Nicora? Ha! As if anyone would give a shit. Get lost.”

The guard turned away, chuckling to himself.

“Ah,” said Zamira. “So be it. I know when I’m not wanted.”

She reached forward and moved the dun-colored tarpaulin on the bottom of the boat,
just ahead of her feet. Beneath it was the heaviest crossbow in the
Poison Orchid
’s arsenal, carrying a barbed steel bolt the length of her upper arm.

“And I simply
do not care
.”

The guard was no doubt flustered by the sudden emergence, two seconds later, of a
crossbow quarrel’s point from his sternum. Zamira wondered if he had time to speculate
on the location of the rest of the bolt before he collapsed, the upper and lower halves
of his spine no longer on speaking terms.

Zamira pulled the yellow dress up and over her head, then tossed it into the back
of the boat. Beneath it she wore her Elderglass vest, light tunic and breeches, boots,
and a pair of slender leather bracers. Her sword-belt was at her waist, empty; she
reached beneath her rowing bench, pulled out her sabers, and slid them into their
scabbards. She rowed her little boat up against the yacht’s side and waved to Nasreen,
who stood at the
Orchid
’s bow. Two crewfolk climbed over the brig’s side and dove into the water.

The swimmers were alongside a minute later. Zamira helped them out of the water and
sent them forward to man one of the sets of oars. She then pulled the pins to release
the yacht’s anchor chains; no sense in wasting time hoisting it up. With her two sailors
rowing and Zamira manning the rudder, it took just a few minutes to shift the yacht
behind the
Poison Orchid
.

Her crew began to come quietly down onto the yacht, armed and armored, looking completely
incongruous as they squeezed themselves onto the fragile, scrollwork-covered vessel.
Zamira counted forty-two before she felt the boat could take no more; crewfolk were
crouched on deck, stuffed into the cabin, and manning all the oars. This would do;
nearly two-thirds of her crew on shore to handle the main attack, and the other third
on the
Orchid
to hit the vessels in the harbor.

She waved at Utgar, who would be in charge of that last duty. He grinned and left
the entry port to begin his final preparations.

Zamira’s rowers brought the yacht out and around the
Orchid
; they turned to larboard just past her stern and pointed themselves straight toward
the beach. Beyond that the buildings and tiered gardens of the rich little valley
could be seen, laid out neat as food before a banquet.

“Who brought the finishing touch?” Zamira asked.

One of her crewmen unfolded a red silk banner and began securing it to the ensign
halyard dangling from the yacht’s mast.

“Right, then.” Zamira knelt at the bow of the yacht and gave her sword-belt a habitual
adjustment. “Oars, with a will! Put us on that beach!”

As the yacht surged forward across the temporarily calm waters of the bay, Zamira
noticed a few small figures atop the nearby cliffs finally taking alarm. One or two
of them ran toward the city; it looked as though they’d arrive about the same time
Zamira expected to feel the sand of the beach beneath her boots.

“That’s it,” she shouted. “Send up the red and let’s have some music!”

As the scarlet banner shot up the halyard and caught the wind, every Orchid on the
yacht let loose with a wild, wordless howl. Their yells echoed throughout the harbor,
the disguised Orchids at the dock began seizing weapons, every visible person on the
cliffs was now fleeing for the city, and Zamira’s sabers flashed in the sunlight as
she drew them for action.

It was the very definition of a beautiful morning.

“WAS IT
absolutely necessary
to sack Salon Corbeau so thoroughly?” said Stragos.

Locke and Jean were seated in the archon’s office, surrounded by the faint shadowy
flutterings of his thousand mechanical insects. It might just have been the shadows
of the low-lit room, but it seemed to Locke that the lines on Stragos’ face had deepened
in the days since he’d last seen him.

“It was loads of fun. You have some particular attachment to the place?”

“Not for my own sake, Lamora—it’s just that I had the clear impression that you were
going to focus your activities on shipping in the vicinity of Tal Verrar.”

“Salon Corbeau is generally considered to be in the vicinity of—”

“Is it a
ship
, Lamora?”

“There were ships in the harbor—”

“I have the gods-damned numbers here, from my agents,” said Stragos. He stabbed at
a piece of parchment with two fingers. “Two feluccas sunk. Forty-six yachts, pleasure
barges, and smaller craft, burned or sunk. One
hundred and eighteen slaves stolen. Nineteen of Countess Saljesca’s private guard
slain, sixteen wounded. The vast majority of Salon Corbeau’s residences and guest
villas burnt, the gardens all but destroyed. Her replica stadium gutted. Miscellaneous
damages and losses exceeding ninety-five thousand solari at a first estimate. About
the only things you missed were a few shops and Lady Saljesca’s residence itself!”