The Gentleman Bastard Series (125 page)

“If you think it proper?” Jabril gaped at him. “Are you bereft of your bloody senses, Ravelle? The time to strike the bastards was hours ago; now the hands we have are in sore need elsewhere, and the fuckin’ weather’s up! We might try it only were the ship in peril … but damn me, she might soon be! Have you not been out this far on the Sea of Brass before, Captain?”

“Aye, of course I have.” Locke sweated within his oilcloak. Had he known the real extent of Jabril’s sea-wisdom, he might have tasked the man with minding such details, but now it was too late, and some of his incompetence was laid bare. “Forgive me, Jabril. Caldris was a good friend. His loss has left me a bit off-kilter!”

“Indeed! As the loss of the fuckin’ ship might leave us all more than a touch
off-kilter
, sir.” Jabril turned and began making his way forward along the larboard rail, then after a few seconds whirled back to Locke. “You and
I both know for a damn truth there’s not a single bloody cat on board, Ravelle!”

Locke hung his head and clung to the mizzen. It was too much to hope that Mazucca and the hands standing behind him hadn’t heard that. But of course, at his glance, they said nothing and betrayed nothing, staring fixedly ahead into the storm, as though trying to imagine he were not there at all.

2

BELOWDECKS WAS a nightmare. At least on deck one had masts and crashing seas to offer some perspective on one’s place. Down here, in the enveloping fug of sweat, urine, and vomit, the shuddering walls themselves seemed to tilt and lurch at malicious whim. Streams of water poured down from hatchways and gratings, despite the weather precautions the crew had taken. The main deck echoed with the muffled howling of the wind, and the clanking sound of the pumps rose from the orlop below.

Those pumps were fine Verrari gearwork, capable of heaving water up and dashing it over the side at some speed, but they demanded eight-man shifts in seas like this, and the labor was backbreaking. Even a crew in good health would have found the job onerous; it was just plain bad luck for this bunch that so few of them had come out of prison at anything near their full strength.

“The water gains, Captain,” said a sailor Locke couldn’t recognize in the near darkness. He’d popped his head up the hatchway from the orlop. “Three feet in the well. Aspel says we busted a seam somewhere; says he needs men for a repair party.”

Aspel was their approximation of a ship’s carpenter. “He’ll have them,” Locke said, though from where, he knew not. Ten doing important work on deck, eight at the pumps … damn near their time to be relieved, too. Six or seven still too bloody weak to be of any use save as ballast. A squad in the orlop hold with Jean, resecuring casks of food and water after three had come loose and broken open. Eight sleeping fitfully on the main deck just a few feet away, having been up all night. Two with broken bones, trying to dull the pain with an unauthorized ration of wine. Their rudimentary scheme of watches was unraveling in the face of the storm’s demands, and Locke struggled to subsume a sharp pang of panic.

“Fetch Master Valora from the orlop,” he said at last. “Tell him he and his men can look to the stores again once they’ve given Aspel a hand.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Captain Ravelle!”

Another shout rose from below as the first sailor disappeared, and Locke stood over the hatchway to answer. “What passes?”

“Our time at the bloody pumps, sir! We can’t keep up this gods-damned pace forever. We need relief. And we need food!”

“You shall have them both,” said Locke, “in but ten minutes.” Though from where, again, he knew not; all his choices were sick, injured, exhausted, or otherwise engaged. He turned to make his way back up to the deck. He could swap the deck-watch and the men at the pumps; it would bring joy to neither group, but it might serve to nudge the ship ahead of total disaster for a few more precious hours.

3

“WHAT DO you mean, you haven’t been turning the glasses?”

“Captain Ravelle, sir, beggin’ your double-fuckin’ pardon, but we ain’t had no time to turn the glasses nor mind the log since … hell, I suppose I can’t say. A while now.”

Bald Mazucca and his mate looked more like they were clinging to his wheel for dear life than steering the ship with it. Two teams of two had the wheels; the air was a frenzy of howling wind and stinging rain. The sea, cresting twenty feet or more, slammed past the bow again and again, washing the deck white and sluicing past Locke’s ankles. At long last they’d been forced to abandon a southerly course, and now they were dead west before the wind, pulled by one lonely storm forecourse. They scudded again and again through waves high as houses.

A bolt of yellow flitting past in the periphery of Locke’s vision was a storm-lantern flying free and vanishing over the side, soon to be a curiosity for the fish far below.

Locke hauled himself over to the binnacle and flipped through the damp pages of the master’s log; the last hasty entry read:

3rd hr afternoon 7 Festal 78 Morgante s/sw 8 kts

please may Iono spare these souls

Locke couldn’t remember when it had last felt like the third hour of the afternoon. The storm turned high noon dark as the insides of a shark’s gullet, and the crackle of lightning gave uncanny illumination to what might have been deep evening. They were as unfixed in time as they were in place.

“At least we know we’re somewhere on the Sea of Brass,” he shouted above the din. “We’ll be through this mess soon enough, and then we’ll take sightings to fix our latitude.”

If only that was as easily done as said. Fear and exhaustion had set Locke’s senses reeling; the world was gray and whirling in every direction, and he’d thrown up his last cold meal at the taffrail … gods knew when. Hours before, probably. If Bondsmage of Karthain had appeared on deck at that moment and offered to use magic to steer the ship to safety, Locke might have kissed their boots.

There was a sudden terrible sound overhead; an explosive crack followed by the warbling hiss of a broken line lashing the air. Seconds later came a louder crash, and then a
snap-snap-snap
like the noise of a whip biting flesh.

“ ’Ware above,” cried Jabril from somewhere forward; Locke and the ship seemed to lurch at once from another hammering wave. It was this loss of footing that saved Locke’s life. A shadow swooped past his left shoulder as he slipped to the wet deck, sputtering. There was a splintering crash, screams, and sudden blackness as something slick and yielding enshrouded him.

Sail canvas! Locke shoved at it, working his way out from beneath it. Strong hands grabbed his forearms and hauled him to his feet. They belonged to Jean, who was braced against the starboard quarterdeck rail. Locke had slid a few feet to his right with the fall. Muttering thanks, he turned to see exactly what he feared.

The main topgallant mast had torn away. Its stays must have been snapped by some trick of wind or the ship’s tumult. It had plunged forward and down, unfurling and trailing sail from its yard as it went, before a mess of tangled rigging had snapped it backward like a pendulum just above the deck. It covered the wheels, and the four men previously manning them were nowhere to be seen. Locke and Jean moved in unison, fighting across wet canvas and torn rope while smaller pieces of debris continued to rain down around them. Already Locke could feel the ship moving in an unhealthy fashion beneath them. The wheels must be seized, the rudder put right instantly.

“All hands,” Locke cried with every ounce of conviction he possessed. “All hands on deck! All hands to save the ship!”

Jean heaved against the fallen topgallant spar, bracing himself against the mainmast, letting loose a howl of sheer exertion. Wood and canvas shifted, then crashed to the deck. Some of the handles of the two wheels
had been reduced to splinters, but the wheels themselves were substantially intact. Locke could now see Bald Mazucca crawling slowly to his feet behind them; another man lay on deck with the top of his head plainly smashed in.

“Seize the wheel,” Locke cried, looking around for more help. “Seize the bloody wheel!” He found himself tangled with Jabril.

“Captain,” Jabril hollered straight into his face, “we are like to broach!”

Oh good, thought Locke, at least I know what that means. He gave Jabril a shove toward the wheels, and grabbed onto one beside Jean. “Helm a-larboard,” Locke coughed, confident of that much. Groaning with strain, he and Jean fought to heave the wheel in the proper direction. The
Red Messenger
was slipping to lee at an angle, down into the troughs of the waves; in moments she’d be broadside to them and all but lost. A dark wave, impossibly heavy, surged over the starboard rail and doused them all, the merest foretaste of what awaited failure.

But the resistance of the wheel lessened as Jabril found his place behind them and heaved; in seconds he was joined by Mazucca, and inch by straining inch Locke felt the ship’s stern come round again to larboard, until her bow was knifing into the waves once more. They’d bought time to contemplate the disaster the toppling mast had made of the rigging.

Men boiled out of the deck hatches, inhuman shapes in the dancing light of storm-lanterns. Lightning scorched the darkness above them. Orders were issued, from Locke and Jean and Jabril, with no heed paid to whose was the higher authority. The minutes became hours, and the hours felt like days. They fought on together in an eternity of gray chaos, cold and exhausted and terrified, against the screaming winds above and the hammering waters below.

4

“THREE FEET of water in the well and holding, Captain.”

Aspel delivered his report with a makeshift bandage wrapped around his head, the sleeve of someone’s jacket roughly slashed from its parent garment.

“Very good,” said Locke, holding himself up at the mainmast much as Caldris had days before. Every joint and muscle in Locke’s body announced their discomfort; he felt like a rag doll full of broken glass, and he was soaked in the bargain. But in that he was no different from any of the survivors aboard the
Red Messenger
. As Chains had once said, feeling
like you wanted desperately to die was fine evidence that you had yet to do so.

The summer’s-end storm was a receding line of darkness on the northwestern horizon; it had spit them out a few hours earlier. Here, the seas were running at five or six feet and the skies were still ashen gray, but this was a paradise following the tempest. Enough funereal light filtered down from above for Locke to guess that it was day, after some fashion.

He surveyed the shambles of the deck; lifelines and debris from the rigging were tangled everywhere. Scraps of canvas fluttered in the wind, and sailors were tripping over fallen block and tackle, cursing as they went. They were a crew of ghosts, haggard and clumsy with fatigue. Jean labored at the forecastle to conjure their first warm meal in living memory.

“Damnation,” Locke muttered. Their escape had not been without price: three swept clean overboard, four seriously injured, two dead including Caldris. Mirlon, the cook, had been the man at the wheel when the main topgallant mast had crashed down upon him like a divine spear and shattered his skull.

“No, Captain,” said Jabril from behind him. “Not if we can do right by them.”

“What?” Locke whirled, confused.… Suddenly he remembered. “Oh, yes, of course.”

“The fallen, Captain,” said Jabril, enunciating as though to a child. “The fallen haunt our decks and cannot rest until we send them off proper.”

“Aye,” said Locke. “Let’s do that.”

Caldris and Mirlon lay by the larboard entry port, wrapped in canvas. Pale packages bound with tarred rope, awaiting their final send-off. Locke and Jabril knelt beside them.

“Say the words, Ravelle,” muttered Jabril. “You can do that much for them. Send their souls on down to Father Stormbringer and give them rest.”

Locke stared at the two wrapped corpses and felt a new pain in his heart. Nearly overcome with fatigue and shame, he put his head in his hands and thought quickly.

By tradition, ships’ captains could be proclaimed lay priests of Iono, with a minimum of study at any proper temple to the Father of Grasping Waters. At sea, they could then lead prayers, perform marriages, and even give death-blessings. While Locke knew some interior ritual of Iono’s Temple, he wasn’t consecrated in Iono’s service. He was a priest of the Crooked Warden, and here at sea, a thousand miles out into Iono’s domain,
aboard a ship that was already damned for spurning His mandates … there was no way in heavens or hells Locke could presume to give these men Iono’s rest. For the sake of their souls, he’d have to invoke the only power he had any pull with.

“Crooked Warden, Unnamed Thirteenth, your servant calls. Place your eyes upon the passing of this man, Caldris bal Comar, Iono’s servant, sworn to steal goods beneath the red flag, therefore sharing a corner of your kingdom—”

“What are you
doing
?” Jabril hissed, seizing Locke by the arm. Locke shoved him backward.

“The only thing I can do,” said Locke. “The only honest blessing I can give these men, understand? Don’t fucking interfere again.” He reached back down to touch Caldris’ wrapped body. “We deliver this man, body and spirit, to the realm of your brother Iono, mighty lord of the sea.” Locke figured a little flattery never went amiss in these matters. “Lend him aid. Carry his soul to She who weighs us all. This we pray with hopeful hearts.”

Locke gestured for Jabril’s help. The muscular man remained deadly silent as they lifted Caldris’ body together and heaved it out the entry port. Even before he heard the splash, Locke reached back down to the other canvas bundle.

“Crooked Warden, Thiefwatcher, your servant calls. Place your eyes upon the passing of this man, Mirlon, Iono’s servant, sworn to steal goods beneath a red flag, therefore sharing a corner of your kingdom …”

5

THE MUTINY came the next morning, while Locke slept senseless in his hammock, still wearing the wet clothes that had seen him through the storm.