The Gentleman Bastard Series (121 page)

7

“YOU’RE THE one responsible for shoving us into this hell, you fuckin’ Verrari ass-licker?”

One of the prisoners stepped up to the bars and clutched them; the depredations of the cell vault had yet to whittle away a build frighteningly close to that of the heroic statuary of old. Locke guessed he was a recent arrival; his muscles looked carved from witchwood. His skin and hair were black enough to shrug off the pale green light, as though in disdain.

“I’m the one responsible for moving you to this vault,” said Locke. “I didn’t lock you up in the first place. I didn’t arrange for the treatment you’ve been receiving.”

“
Treatment’s
a fancy fuckin’ word for it.”

“What’s your name?”

“Jabril.”

“Are you in charge?”

“Of what?” Some of the man’s anger seemed to ebb, transmuting to tired resignation. “Nobody’s in fuckin’ charge behind iron bars,
Captain
Ravelle. We piss where we sleep. We don’t keep bloody muster rolls or duty shifts.”

“You men are all sailors,” said Locke.

“Was sailors,” said Jabril.

“I know what you are. You wouldn’t be here otherwise. Think about this—thieves get let out. They go to West Citadel, they work at hard labor, they slave until they rupture or get pardoned. But even they get to see the sky. Even their cells have windows. Debtors are free to go when their debts are paid. Prisoners of war go home when the war’s over. But you poor bastards … you’re penned up here against need. You’re cattle. If there’s a war, you’ll be chained to oars, and if there’s no war … well.”

“There’s always war,” said Jabril.

“Seven years since the last one,” said Locke. He stepped up to the bars just across from Jabril and looked him in the eyes. “Maybe seven years again. Maybe never. You really want to grow old in this vault, Jabril?”

“What’s the bloody alternative … Captain?”

“Some of you came from a ship,” said Locke. “Impounded recently. Your captain tried to smuggle in a nest of stiletto wasps.”

“The
Fortunate Venture
, aye,” said Jabril. “We was promised high heaps of gold for that job.”

“Fucking things killed eight men on the voyage,” said another prisoner. “We thought we’d inherit their shares.”

“Turns out they was lucky,” said Jabril. “They didn’t have to take no share of this gods-damned place.”

“The
Fortunate Venture
is riding at anchor in the Sword Marina,” said Locke. “She’s been rechristened the
Red Messenger
. Refurbished, resupplied, careened, and smoked. She’s been prettied up. The archon means to take her into his service.”

“Good for the bloody archon.”

“I’m to command her,” said Locke. “She’s at my disposal. I have the keys, as it were.”

“What the fuck do you want, then?”

“It’s half past midnight,” said Locke, lowering his voice to a stage whisper that echoed dramatically to the back of the cell. “Morning relief won’t arrive for more than six hours. And every guard on Windward Rock is … currently … unconscious.”

The entire cell was full of wide eyes. Men heaved themselves up from their sleeping pallets and pressed closer to the bars, forming an unruly but attentive crowd.

“I am leaving Tal Verrar tonight,” said Locke. “This is the last time I will ever wear this uniform. I am quits with the archon and everything he stands for. I mean to take the
Red Messenger
, and for that I need a crew.”

The mass of prisoners exploded into a riot of shoving and jabbering. Hands thrust out at Locke through the bars, and he stepped back.

“I’m a topman,” one of the prisoners yelled, “fine topman! Take me!”

“Nine years at sea,” hollered another. “Do anything!”

Jean stepped up and pounded on the cell door again, bellowing,
“Quiiiieeeett!”

Locke held up the ring of keys Jean had taken from the lieutenant in the entrance hall.

“I sail south on the Sea of Brass,” he said. “I make for Port Prodigal. This is not subject to vote or negotiation. You sail with me, you sail under the
red flag. You want off when we reach the Ghostwinds, you can have it. Until then, we’re on the watch for money and plunder. No room for shirkers. The word is equal shares.”

That would give them something to ponder, Locke thought. A freebooter captain more commonly took two to four shares from ten of any plunder got at sea. Just the thought of equal shares for all would quell a great many mutinous urges.

“Equal shares,”
he repeated above another sudden outburst of babble. “But you make your decision here and now. Take oath to me as your captain and I will free you immediately. I have means to get you off this rock and over to the
Red Messenger
. We’ll have hours of darkness to clear the harbor and be well away. If you don’t want to come, fine. But no courtesies in that case. You’ll stay here when we’re gone. Maybe the morning relief will be impressed with your honesty … but I doubt it. Who among you will desist?

None of the prisoners said anything.

“Who among you will go free, and join my crew?”

Locke winced at the eruption of shouts and cheers, then allowed himself a wide, genuine grin.

“All gods as your witness!” he shouted. “Upon your lips and upon your hearts.”

“Our oath is made,” said Jabril, while those around him nodded.

“Then stand upon it, or pray to die, and be damned and found wanting on the scales of the Lady of the Long Silence.”

“So we stand,” came a chorus of shouts.

Locke passed the ring of keys over to Jean. The prisoners watched in an ecstasy of disbelief as he found the proper key, slid it into the lock, and gave it a hard turn to the right.

8

“THERE IS one problem,” said Stragos.

“Just one?” Locke rolled his eyes.

“There are only forty left of the forty-four I selected.”

“How will that suit the needs of the ship?”

“We’ve got food and water for a hundred days with sixty,” said Caldris. “And she can be handled well with half that number. Once we’ve got them sorted out, we’ll do fine for hands at the lines.”

“So you will,” said Stragos. “The missing four are women. I had them placed in a separate cell. One of them developed a gaol-fever, and soon they
all had it. I had no choice but to move them to shore; they’re too weak to lift their arms, let alone join this expedition.”

“We’re for sea with not a woman aboard,” said Caldris. “Will not Merrain be coming with us, then?”

“I’m afraid,” she said sweetly, “that my talents will be required elsewhere.”

“This is mad,” cried Caldris. “We taunt the Father of Storms!”

“You can find women for your crew in Port Prodigal, perhaps even good officers.” Stragos spread his hands. “Surely you’ll be fine for the duration of a single voyage down.”

“Would that it were mine to so declare,” said Caldris, a haunted look in his eyes. “Master Kosta, this is a poor way to start. We must have cats. A basket of cats, for the
Red Messenger
. We need what luck we can steal. All gods as your witness, you
must not fail
to have cats at that ship before we put to sea.”

“Nor shall I,” said Locke.

“Then it’s settled,” said Stragos. “Heed this now, Kosta. Concerning the … depth of your deception. In case you have any misgivings. None of the men you’ll be taking from Windward Rock have ever served in my navy, so they’ve little notion of what to expect from one of my officers. And soon enough you’ll be Ravelle the pirate rather than Ravelle the naval captain, so you may tailor the impersonation as you see fit, and worry little over small details.”

“That’s good,” said Locke. “I’ve got enough of those crammed into my head just now.”

“I have one last stipulation,” Stragos continued. “The men and women who serve at Windward Rock, even those who are not party to this scheme, are among my finest and most loyal. I will provide means for you to disable them without rendering permanent harm.
In no way
are they to be otherwise injured, not by you nor your crew, and gods help you if you leave any dead.”

“Curious sentiments for a man who claims to be no stranger to risks.”

“I would send them into battle at any time, Kosta, and lose them willingly. But none who wear my colors honestly are to die as part of this; that much my honor compels me to grant them. You are supposed to be professionals. Consider this a test of your professionalism.”

“We’re not bloody murderers,” said Locke. “We kill for good reason, when we kill at all.”

“So much the better,” said Stragos. “That is all I have to say, then. This day is yours to do with as you see fit. Tomorrow evening, just before midnight, you’ll land on Windward Rock and start this business.”

“We need our antidote,” said Locke. Jean and Caldris nodded.

“Of course. You three will get your last vials just before you leave. After that … I shall expect your first return within two months. And a report of your progress.”

9

LOCKE AND Jean managed a ragged muster of their new crew just inside the entrance hall. Jean had to demonstrate his physical strength to several men who attempted to vent their frustrations on the sleeping guards.

“I said you touch them at your peril,” Locke snarled for the third time. “Let them be! If we leave them dead behind us, we’ll lose all sympathy with anyone. Let them live, and Verrari will be laughing about this for months to come.

“Now,” he said, “move out quietly to the dockside. Take your ease, stretch your legs, have a good long look at the sea and sky. I’ve a boat to fetch before we can be away. For the sake of us all, keep your mouths shut.”

They mostly obeyed this admonition, breaking up into little whispering groups as they moved out of the tower. Locke noticed that some of the men hung back near the door, their hands on the stones, as though afraid to step out beneath the open sky. He couldn’t say he blamed them after months or years in the vault.

“That’s lovely,” said Jabril, who fell into step beside Locke as they approached the dock where Caldris paced with his lantern. “Fuckin’ lovely. Almost as lovely as not having to smell us all at once.”

“You’ll be crammed together again soon enough,” said Locke.

“Aye. Same but different.”

“Jabril,” said Locke, raising his voice, “in time, as we come to know one another’s strengths, we can hold proper votes for some of the officers we’ll need. For now, I’m naming you acting mate.”

“Mate of what?”

“Mate of whatever.” Locke grinned and slapped him on the back. “I’m not in the navy anymore, remember? You’ll answer to Jerome. Keep the men in order. Take the weapons from that soldier tied to the dock, just in case we need to pull a little steel this evening. I don’t expect a fight, but we should be ready.”

“Good evening, Captain Ravelle,” said Caldris. “I see you’ve fetched them out just as you planned.”

“Aye,” said Locke. “Jabril, this is Caldris, my sailing master. Caldris, Jabril is acting mate under Jerome. Listen up!” Locke raised his voice
without shouting, lest it echo across the water to unseen ears. “I came with a boat for six. I have a boat for forty nearby. I need two men to help me row. Won’t be half an hour, and then we’ll be away.”

Two younger prisoners stepped forward, looking eager for anything that would relieve the tedium of what they’d been through.

“Right,” said Locke as he stepped down into their little boat, after Caldris and the two sailors. “Jerome, Jabril, keep order and quiet. Try to sort out those who can work right away from those who will need a few days to recover their strength.”

Anchored half a mile out from Windward Rock was a long launch, invisible in the moonlight until Caldris’ lantern found it from about fifty yards away. Locke and Caldris worked quickly to rig the boat’s small sail; then, slowly but surely, they steered their way back toward the prison with the two ex-prisoners rowing the little boat beside them. Locke glanced around nervously, spotting a sail or two gleaming palely on the far horizons, but nothing closer.

“Listen well,” he said when the launch was tied up below the dock and surrounded by his would-be crew. He was pleasantly surprised at how quickly they’d settled down to the business at hand. Of course, that made sense—they were the crews of impounded ships, not hard cases imprisoned for individual crimes. It didn’t make saints of them, but it was nice to have something unforeseen working in his favor for once.

“Able hands take the oars. Don’t be shy if you’re less than able for the time being; I know some of you have been down there too damn long. Just sit down in the middle of the launch and take it easy. You can recover yourselves on the voyage out. We’ve plenty to eat.”

That lent them some cheer. Once at sea, Locke knew, the state of their rations might easily approach that of the prison slop they were leaving behind, but for a fair few days they’d have a supply of fresh meat and vegetables to look forward to.

In good order the former prisoners clambered aboard the launch; soon the gunwales were lined with those claiming to be able-bodied, and oars were being slipped into their locks. Jabril took the bow, waving up at Locke and Caldris when all was in readiness.

“Right,” said Locke. “The
Messenger
is anchored south of the Sword Marina on the seaward side, wanting nothing save her crew. One guard stands watch for the night, and I’ll deal with him. Just follow us and go aboard once I’ve done that; the nets are lowered over the side and the defenses are stowed.”

Locke took the bow of the small boat and struck what he hoped was an
appropriately regal posture. Jean and Caldris took the oars, and the last two prisoners sat at the stern, one of them holding Caldris’ lantern.

“Say farewell to Windward Rock, boys,” said Locke. “And bid fuck-you to the archon of Tal Verrar. We’re bound for sea.”

10

A SHADOW within shadows watched the two boats depart.

Merrain moved out of her position beside the tower and gave a small wave as the low gray shapes diminished into the south. She loosed the black silk scarf that had covered her lower face and pushed back the hood of her black jacket; she had lain in the shadows beside the tower for nearly two hours, waiting patiently for Kosta and de Ferra to finish their business. Her own boat was stashed beneath a rocky overhang on the east side of the island, little more than a cockleshell of treated leather over a wood frame. Even in moonlight, it was all but invisible on the water.