Red Seas Under Red Skies gb-2

by Scott Lynch 2007

  “You know, Captain,” said Locke, staring down at the blood-soaked sleeves of his jacket, “that sort of gives me an idea. A really, really amusing idea…”

  4

  Just past the second hour of the morning, with Tal Verrar finally shuddering into a drunken somnambulance and the Festa fires extin— guished, the Poison Orchid in her costume as the Chimera crept past the Happy Pilchard. She passed the battered, sleepy little ketch at a distance of about two hundred yards, flying a minimal number of navigation lanterns and offering no hail. That wasn’t entirely unusual in waters where not one act of piracy had been reported for more than seven years.

  In darkness, it was impossible to see that the Orchid’s deck carried no boats.

  Those boats slowly emerged from the ship’s larboard shadow, and at a silent signal their rowers exploded into action. With the haste of their passage they turned the dark sea white. Three faint, frothy lines reached out from Orchid to Pilchard, and by the time the lone watchman on at the ketch’s stern noticed anything, it was far too late.

  “Ravelle,” cried Jean, who was the first up the ketch’s side. “Ravelle!” Still dressed in his blood-spattered finery, he’d wrapped a scrap of red linen around his head and borrowed an iron-shod quarterstaff from one of the Orchid’s arms lockers. Orchids scrambled up behind him — Jabril and Malakasti, Streva and Rask. They carried clubs and saps, leaving their blades sheathed at their belts.

  Three boats” worth of pirates boarded from three separate directions; the ketch’s meagre crew was swept into the waist by shouting, club-waving lunatics, all hollering a name that was meaningless to them, until at last they were subdued and the chief of their tormentors came aboard to exalt in his victory. “The name’s Ravelle!”

  Locke paced the deck before the thirteen cringing crewfolk and their strange blue-robed passenger. Locke, like Jean, had kept his bloody clothing and topped it off with a red sash at his waist, a red bandanna over his hair and a scattering of Zamira’s jewellery for effect. “Orrin Ravelle! And I” ve come back to pay my respects to Tal Verrar!”

  “Don’t kill us, sir,” pleaded the captain of the little vessel, a skinny man of about thirty with the tan of a lifelong mariner. “We ain’t even from Tal Verrar, just calling so our charter can—”

  “You are interrupting critical hydrographic experiments,” shouted the blue-robed man, attempting to rise to his feet. He was shoved back down by a squad of leering Orchids. “This information is vital to the interest of all mariners! You cut your own throat if you—” “What the hell’s a critical hydrographic experiment, old man?” “By examining sea-floor composition—” “Sea-floor composition? Can I eat that? Can I spend it? Can I take it back to my cabin and fuck it sideways?” “No and no and most certainly no!” “Right,” said Locke. “Toss this fucker over the side.” “You ignorant bastards! You hypocritical apes! Let go— Let go of me!” Locke was pleased to see Jean stepping in to perform the duty of heaving the robed scholar off the deck; not only would the man be scared witless, but Jean would control the situation precisely to keep him from actually getting hurt.

  “Oh, please, sir, don’t do that,” said the Pilchard’s captain. “Master Donatti’s harmless, sir, please—”

  “Look,” said Locke, “is everyone on this tub an idiot besides me? Why would I sully the soles of my boots with a visit to this embarrassment unless you had something I wanted?” “The, um, hydrographic experiments?” asked the captain. “MONEY!” Locke seized him by the front of his tunic and heaved him to his feet. “I want every valuable, every drinkable, every consumable this overgrown dinghy has to offer, or you can watch the old bastard drown! How’s that for a hydrographic experiment}”

  5

  They didn’t clear such a bad haul for such a little ship; obviously, Donatti had paid well to be carried around for his experiments and been unwilling to sail without many of the comforts of home. A boat laden with liquors, fine tobacco, silk pillows, books, artificers” instruments, alchemical drugs and bags of silver coins was soon sent back to the Orchid, while “Ravelle’s” pirates finished sabotaging the little ship.

  “Rudder lines disabled, sir,” said Jean about half an hour after thed’r boarded.

  “Halliards cut, braces cut,” shouted Delmastro, plainly enjoying her role as an ordinary buccaneer for this attack. She strolled along the larboard rail with a hatchet, chopping things seemingly at whim. “Whatever the hell that was, cut!”

  “Sir, please,” begged the captain, “that’ll take ages to fix, you got all the valuables already—”

  “I don’t want you to die out here,” said Locke, yawning in feigned boredom at the captain’s pleas. “I just want to have a few quiet hours before this news gets back to Tal Verrar.”

  “Oh, sir, we’ll do what you ask. Whatever you want; we won’t tell no one—”

  “Please,” said Locke. “Cling to some dignity, Master Pilchard. I want you to talk about this. All over the place. Use it to leverage sympathy from whores. Maybe get a few free drinks in taverns. Most importantly, repeat my name. Orrin Ravelle.” “O-orrin Ravelle, sir.”

  “Captain Orrin Ravelle,” said Locke, drawing a dagger and placing it against the captain’s throat. “Of the good ship Tal Verrar is Fuckedl You stop in and let them know I’m in the neighbourhood!” “I, uh, I will, sir.”

  “Good.” Locke dropped the man back to the deck and stowed his dagger. “Then let’s call it quits. You can have your amusing little toy ship back now.”

  Locke and Jean met briefly at the stern before boarding the last boat back to the Orchid. “Gods,” said Jean, “the Archon is going to love this.”

  “Well, we didn’t He to him, did we? We promised pirate attacks at every compass point. We just didn’t say thed’r all feature Zamira as the major attraction.” Locke blew a kiss to the city, spread across the northern horizon. “Happy Festa, Protector.”

  6

  “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 arse.”

  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 progressed 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 thed’r gulped down proffered mugs of lukewarm pinkwater, 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 the 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 rumours 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 pan
ic, 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’s 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 colourful. Some— thing striking, something that is undeniably a sincere example of our best efforts on Stragos’s 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. Colourful. Non-threatening. 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, colourful and not threatening Tal Verrar directly* Locke whispered. “Gods! Captain Drakasha, you would so honour me if you would consent to one humble suggestion …”

  7

  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 grey 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 harbour.

  “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 harbour, a stately brig, a two-master with a dark witchwood hull, had just joined the two Lashani feluccas at anchor in the gentle sea. A longboat was coming in from the new arrival: 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 muscular 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 colour set her curly chestnut hair off rather well. She appeared to be wearing rather less make-up and jewellery 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.”

  8

  “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 that 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 colour 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 sabres 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.”

  9

  “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 from her wrists and the ribbons from 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 inappropriate1. 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-coloured 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 stern 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 sabres 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 dived 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 armoured, 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 harbour.

  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 thed’r 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 harbour, the disguised Orchids at the dock began seizing weapons, every visible person on the cliffs was now fleeing for the city and Zamira’s sabres flashed in the sunlight as she drew them for action. It was the very definition of a beautiful morning.