Red Seas Under Red Skies gb-2

by Scott Lynch 2007

  Their dinghy was lashed to the side of the platform, which was perhaps thirty feet on a side. Spread across the stones at their feet were an array of navigational devices: backstaffs, cross-staffs, hourglasses, charts and compasses, a Determiner’s Box and a set of unfathomable peg-boards that Caldris claimed were used for tracking course changes. The kitten was sleeping on an astrolabe, covering up the symbols etched into its brass surface.

  “Friend Jerome was tolerably good at this,” said Caldris. “But he’s not to be the captain; you are.”

  “And I thought you were to handle all the important tasks, on pain of gruesome death, as you” ve only mentioned tenscore times.”

  “I am. You’re mad if you think that’s changed. But I need you to understand just enough not to gawk with your thumb up your arse when I say this or do that. Just know which end to hold, and be able to read a latitude that doesn’t put us off by half the fucking world.” “Sun-shadow and horizon,” muttered Locke.

  “Indeed. Later on tonight, we’ll use the old-style staff for the only thing it’s still good for — taking your reading from the stars.” “But it’s just past noon!”

  “Right,” said Caldris. “We’re in for a good long haul today. There’s books and charts and maths to do, and more sailing and rowing, then f more books and charts. Late to bed, you’ll be. Better get comfortable with this here Lubbers” Castle.” Caldris spat on the stones. “Now fetch that fucking latitude!”

  7

  “What’s it mean if we broach?” said Jean.

  It was late in the evening of their ninth day with Caldris, and Jean was soaking in a huge brass tub. Despite the warmth of their enclosed chambers at the Villa Candessa, he’d demanded hot water, and it was still sending up wisps of curling steam after three-quarters of an hour. On a little table beside the tub was an open bottle of Austershalin brandy (the 554, the cheapest readily available) and both of the Wicked Sisters.

  The shutters and curtains of the suite’s windows were all drawn tight, the door was bolted and Locke had wedged a chair up beneath its handle. That might provide a few seconds” additional warning if someone tried to enter by force. Locke lay on his bed, letting two glasses of brandy loosen the knots in his muscles. His knives were set out on the nightstand, not three feet from his hands. “Ah, gods,” he said. “I know this. It’s… something… bad?”

  “To meet strong winds and seas abeam,” said Jean, “taking them on the side, rather than cutting through them with the bow.” “And that’s bad.”

  “Powerful bad.” Jean was paging through a tattered copy of Indrovo Lencallis’s Wise Mariner’s Practical Lexicon, With Numerous Enlightening Examples from Honest History. “Come on, you’re the captain of the ship. I’m just your skull-cracker.”

  “I know. Give me another.” Locke’s own copy of the book was currently resting underneath his knives and his glass of brandy.

  “Hmmm.“Jean flipped pages. “Caldris says to put us on a beam reach. What the hell’s he talking about?”

  “Wind coming in perpendicular to the keel,” muttered Locke. “Hitting us straight on the side.” “And now he wants a broad reach.”

  “Right.” Locke paused to sip his brandy. “Wind neither blowing right up our arse nor straight on the side. Coming from one of the rear quarters, at forty-five degrees or so to the keel.”

  “Good enough.“Jean flipped pages again. “Box the compass. What’s the sixth point?” “Hard east. Gods, this is just like dinner with Chains back home.” “Right on both counts. South a point.” “Um, east by south.” “Right. South another point.” “Southeast-east?” “And another point.”

  “Ah, gods.” Locke downed the rest of his brandy in one gulp. “Southeast by go-fuck-yourself. That’s enough for tonight.” “But—”

  “I am the captain of the bloody ship,” said Locke, rolling over onto his stomach. “My orders are to drink your brandy and go to bed.” He reached out, pulled a pillow completely over his head and was fast asleep in moments. Even in his dreams he was tying knots, bracing sails and finding latitudes.

  8

  “I was not aware,” said Locke the next morning, “that I had joined your navy. I thought the whole idea was to run away from it.” “A means to an end, Master Kosta.”

  The Archon had been waiting for them in their private bay within the Sword Marina. One of his personal boats (Locke remembered it from the glass caverns beneath the Mon Magisteria) was tied up behind their dinghy. Merrain and half a dozen Eyes had been in attendance. Now Merrain was helping Locke try on the uniform of a Verrari naval officer.

  The tunic and breeches were the same dark blue as the doublets of the Eyes. The coat, however, was brownish-red, with stiff black leather sewn along the forearms in approximation of bracers. The single neckcloth was dark blue, and gleaming brass devices in the shape of roses over crossed swords were pinned to his upper arms just below the shoulders.

  “I don’t have many fair-haired officers in my service,” said Stragos, “but the uniform is a good fit. I’ll have two more made by the end of the week.” Stragos reached out and adjusted some of Locke’s details — tightening his neckcloth, shifting the hang of the empty scabbard at his belt. “After that, you’ll wear it for a few hours each day. Get used to it. One of my Eyes will instruct you in how to carry yourself, and the courtesies and salutes we use.” “I still don’t understand why—”

  “I know.” Stragos turned to Caldris, who, in his master’s presence, has lost his customary vulgar impishness. “How are they doing in their training, Sailing Master?”

  “The Protector is already well aware,” said Caldris slowly, “of my general opinion concerning this here mission.” “That’s not what I asked.”

  “They are… less hopeless than they were, Protector. Somewhat less hopeless.”

  “That will do, then. You still have nearly three weeks to mould them. I daresay they already look better acquainted with hard work under the sun.” “Where’s our ship, Stragos?” asked Locke. “Waiting.” “And where’s our crew?” “In hand.” “And why the hell am I wearing this uniform?”

  “Because it pleases me to make you a captain in my navy. That’s what’s meant by the twin roses-over-swords. You’ll be a captain for one night only. Learn to look comfortable in the uniform. Then learn to be patient waiting for your orders.”

  Locke scowled, then placed his right hand on his scabbard and crossed his left arm, with a clenched fist, across his chest. He bowed from the waist at the precise angle he’d seen Stragos’s Eyes use on several occasions. “Gods defend the Archon of Tal Verrar.”

  “Very good,” said Stragos. “But you’re an officer, not a common soldier or sailor. You bow at a shallower angle.”

  He turned and walked toward his boat. The Eyes formed ranks and marched after him, and Merrain began pulling the uniform hurriedly off Locke.

  “I return you gentlemen to Caldris’s care,” said the Archon as he stepped down into the boat. “Use your days well.”

  “And just when in the name of the gods do we get to learn how this all fits together?” “All in good time, Kosta.”

  9

  Two mornings later, when the gates swung wide to admit Merrain’s boat to the private bay in the Sword Marina, Locke and Jean were surprised to discover that their dinghy had been joined during the night by an actual ship.

  A soft, warm rain was falling, not a proper squall from the Sea of Brass but an annoyance blowing in from the mainland. Caldris waited on the stone plaza in a light oilcloak, with rivulets of water streaming from his unprotected hair and beard. He grinned when the boat delivered Locke and Jean, lightly clad and bootless.

  “Look you both,” Caldris yelled. “Here she is in person. The ship we’re damn likely to die on!” He clapped Locke on the back and laughed. “She’s styled the Red Messenger.”

  “Is she now?” The vessel was quiet and still, sails furled, lamps unlit. There was something unfathomably melancholy about a ship in such a
condition, Locke thought. “One of the Archon’s, I presume?”

  “No. It seems the gods have favoured the Protector with a chance to be bloody economical with this mission. You know what stiletto wasps are?” “Only too well”

  “Some idiot tried to put into port with a hive in his hold, not too long ago. Gods know what he was planning with it. That got him executed, and the ship was ruled droits of the Archonate. That nest of little monsters got burned.”

  “Oh,” said Locke, sniggering. “I’m very sure it was. Thorough and incorruptible, the fine customs officers of Tal Verrar.”

  “Archon had it careened,” continued Caldris. “Needed new sails, some shoring-up, fresh lines, bit of caulking. All the insides got smoked with brimstone, and she’s been renamed and rechristened. Still plenty cheap, compared to offering up one of his own.” “How old is she?”

  “Twenty years, near as I can tell. Hard years, likely, but she’ll hold for a few more. Assuming we bring her back. Now show me what you” ve learned. What do you think she is?”

  Locke studied the vessel, which had two masts, a very slightly raised stern deck and a single boat stored upside-down at its waist. “Is she a caulotteV “No,” said Caldris, “she’s more properly a vestrel, what you” d also call a brig, a very wee one. I can see why you” d say caulotte. But let me tell you why you’re off on the particulars…”

  Caldris launched into a number of highly technical explanations, pointing out things about leeward main braces and cross-jacks, which Locke only half-understood in the manner of a visitor to a foreign city listening to eager directions from a fast native talker.

  “… She’s eighty-eight feet stem to stern, not counting the bowsprit, of course,” finished Caldris.

  “I hadn’t truly realized before now,” said Locke. “Gods, I’m actually to command this ship.”

  “Ha! No. You are to feign command of this ship. Don’t get blurry-eyed on me, now. All you do is tell the crew what my proper orders are. Now hurry aboard.”

  Caldris led them up a ramp and onto the deck of the Red Messenger, and while Locke gazed around, absorbing every visible detail, a gnawing unease was growing in his stomach. He” d taken all the minutiae of shipboard life for granted on his single previous (and bed-ridden) voyage, but now every knot and ring-bolt, every block and tackle, every shroud and line and pin and mechanism might hold the key to saving his life… or foiling his impersonation utterly.

  “Damn,” he muttered to Jean. “Maybe ten years ago I might have been dumb enough to think this was going to be easy.”

  “It’s not getting any easier,” said Jean, squeezing Locke on his uninjured shoulder. “But we’re not yet out of time to learn.”

  They paced the full length of the ship in the warm drizzle, with Caldris alternately pointing things out and demanding answers to difficult questions. They finished their tour at the Red Messenger’s waist, and Caldris leaned back against the ship’s boat to rest.

  “Well,” he said, “you do learn fast, for lubbers. I can give you that much. Notwithstanding, I” ve taken shits with more sea-wisdom than the pair of you combined.”

  “Come ashore and let us try to teach you our profession sometime, goat-face.”

  “Ha! Master de Ferra, you’ll fit in just fine in that wise. Maybe you’ll never truly know shit from staysails, but you” ve got the manner of a grand first mate. Now, up the ropes. We’re visiting the maintop this morning while this fine weather holds.” “The maintop?” Locke stared up the mainmast, dwindling into the greyness above, and squinted as rain fell directly into his face. “It’s bloody raining!”

  “It has been known to rain at sea. Ain’t nobody passed you the word?” Caldris stepped over to the starboard main shrouds; they passed down just the opposite side of the deck railing and were secured by deadeyes to the outer hull itself. Grunting, the sailing master hoisted himself up onto the rail and beckoned for Locke and Jean to follow. “The poor bastards on your crew will be up there in all weather. I’m not taking you out to sea as virgins to the ropes, so get your arses up after me!”

  They followed Caldris up into the rain, carefully stepping into the ratlines that crossed the shrouds to provide footholds. Locke had to admit that nearly two weeks of steady hard exercise had given him more wind for a task like this, and begun to mitigate the pain of his old wounds. Still, the strange and faintly yielding sensation of the rope ladder was like nothing familiar to him, and he was only too happy when a dark yardarm loomed out of the drizzle just above them. A few moments later, he scampered up to join Jean and Caldris on a circular platform that was blessedly firm.

  “We’re two-thirds up, maybe,” said Caldris. “This yard carries the main course.” Locke knew by now that he was referring to the ship’s primary square sail, not a navigational plan. “Further up, you got your topsails and t” gallants. But this is fine enough for now. Gods, you think you got it bad today, can you imagine climbing up here with the ship bucking side to side like a bull making babies? Ha!”

  “Can’t be as bad,” Jean whispered to Locke, “as some fucking idiot toppling off and landing on one of us.” “Will I be expected,” said Locke, “to come up here frequently?” “You got unusually sharp eyes?” “I don’t think so.”

  “Hell with it, then. Nobody’ll expect it. Captain’s place is on deck. You want to see things from a distance, use a glass. You’ll have top-eyes hugging the mast further up to do your spotting.”

  They took in the view for a few more minutes, and then thunder rumbled in the near distance and the rain stiffened.

  “Down we go, I think.” Caldris rose and prepared to slide over the side. “There’s tempting the gods, and then there’s tempting the gods.”

  Locke and Jean reached the deck again with no trouble, but when Caldris jumped down from the shrouds he was breathing raggedly. He groaned and massaged his upper left arm. “Damn. I’m too old for the tops. Thank the gods the master’s place is on the decks, too.” Thunder punctuated his words. “Come on, then. We’ll use the main cabin. No sailing today; just books and charts. I know how much you love those.”

  10

  By the end of their third week with Caldris, Locke and Jean had begun to nurture guarded hopes that their brush with the two dockside assassins would not be repeated. Merrain continued to escort them each morning, but they were given some freedom at night provided they went armed and ventured no farther than the interior waterfront of the Arsenate District. The taverns there were thick with the Archon’s soldiers and sailors, and it would be a difficult place for someone to lurk unnoticed in ambush.

  At the tenth hour of the evening on Duke’s Day (which of course, Jean corrected himself, the Verrari called Councils” Day), Jean found Locke staring down a bottle of fortified wine at a back table in the Sign of the Thousand Days. The place was spacious and cheerfully lit, noisy with the bustle of healthy business. It was a naval bar — all the best tables, under hanging reproductions of old Verrari battle pennants, were filled with officers whose social status was clear whether or not they were wearing their colours. Common sailors drank and gamed at the penumbra of tables surrounding them, and the few outsiders congregated at the little tables around Locke.

  “I thought I might find you here,” said Jean, taking the seat across from Locke. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Tm working. Isn’t it obvious?” Locke seized the wine bottle by its neck and gestured toward Jean. “This is my hammer.” He then rapped his knuckles against the wooden tabletop. “And this is my anvil. I am beating my brains into a more pleasant shape.” “What’s the occasion?”

  “I just wanted half a night to be something other than the captain of a phantom fucking sailing expedition.” He spoke in a controlled whisper, and it was plain to Jean that he was not yet drunk, but more possessed of an earnest desire to be so. “My head is full of little ships, all going round and round gleefully making up new names for the things on their decks!” He paused to take a sip, then
offered the bottle to Jean, who shook his head. “I suppose you” ve been diligently studying your Lexicon.”

  “Partly.” Jean turned himself and his chair a bit toward the wall, to allow him to keep an unobtrusive eye on most of the tavern. “I” ve also penned some polite little lies to Durenna and Corvaleur; they” ve been sending notes to the Villa Candessa, asking when we’ll come back to the gaming tables so they can have another go at butchering us.”

  “I do so hate to disappoint the ladies,” said Locke, “but tonight I’m on leave from everything. No “Spire, no Archon, no Durenna, no Lexicon, no navigational tables. Just simple arithmetic. Drink plus drinker equals drunk. Join me. Just for an hour or two. You know you could use it.”

  “I do. But Caldris grows more demanding with every passing day; I fear we’ll need clear heads on the morrow more than we’ll need clouded ones tonight.”

  “Caldris’s lessons aren’t clearing our heads. Quite the opposite. We’re taking five years of teaching in a month. It’s all jumbling up inside me. You know, before I stepped in here tonight I bought half a peppered melon. The stall-woman asked which of her melons I wished cut, the one on the left or the right. I replied, “The larboard!” My own throat has turned traitorously nautical on me.”

  “It is something like a madman’s private language, isn’t it?” Jean slipped his optics out of his coat pocket and onto the end of his nose so he could examine the faint etching on Locke’s wine bottle. An indifferent Anscalani vintage, a blunt instrument among wines. “So intricate in its convolutions. Say you have a rope lying on the deck. On Penance Day it’s just a rope lying on the deck; after the third hour of the afternoon on Idler’s Day it’s a half-stroke babble-gibbet, and then at midnight on Throne’s Day it becomes a rope again, unless it’s raining.”

  “Unless it’s raining, yes, in which case you take your clothes off and dance naked round the mizzenmast. Gods, yes. I swear, Je… Jerome, the next person who tells me something like, “Squiggle-fuck the rightwise cock-swatter with a starboard jib,” is going to get a knife in the throat. Even if it’s Caldris. No more nautical terms tonight.” “You seem to be three sheets to the wind.”