by Scott Lynch
He leapt up, holding fast to one of the lines by which the cask was suspended from a winding-tackle, and dodged another spear thrust. No good trying to cut all the lines leading down from the tackle. That could take minutes. He tried to remember the patterns of ropes and blocks Caldris had drilled into him. His eyes darted along the single taut line that fell from the winding-tackle to a snatch-block at one corner of the cargo hatch. Yes—that line led across the deck, disappearing beneath the throng of combatants. It would run to the capstan, and if it was cut …
Gritting his teeth, he gave the taut line a good slash with the forte of his blade, feeling the saber bite hemp. A thrown hatchet whizzed past his shoulder, missing by the width of his little finger. He slashed the line again, and again, driving the blade with all the force he could muster. At the fourth stroke, it unraveled with a snap, and the weight of the cask broke it clean in two. Locke rode the barrel down into the hold, his eyes squeezed firmly shut. Someone screamed, saving him the trouble of doing so himself.
The cask struck with a resounding crash. Locke’s momentum smacked him down hard against its upper surface. His chin struck wood and he was tossed sideways, landing in an undignified heap on the deck. Warm, smelly liquid washed over him—beer. The cask was gushing it.
Locke climbed back to his feet, groaning. One Redeemer hadn’t moved fast enough, and was splayed out beneath the cask, clearly dead. The other two had been knocked sideways by the impact, and were feeling around groggily for their weapons.
He stumbled over and slit their throats before they knew he was even back on his feet. It wasn’t fighting, just thief’s work, and he did it mechanically. Then he blinked and looked around for something to clean the blade on; an old and natural thief’s habit that nearly got him killed.
A heavy dark shape splashed into the beer beside him. One of the Jeremites who’d been troubling him above, the one with the spear, had leapt the six or seven feet down into the hold. But the gushing beer was treacherous; the Redeemer’s feet went out from under him as he landed, and he toppled onto his back. Coldly resigned, Locke drove his saber into the man’s chest, then pried the spear from his dying hands.
“Undone by drink,” he whispered.
The fight continued above. For the moment, he was alone in the hold with his shoddy little victory.
Four dead, and he’d cheated every one, using luck and surprise and plain skullduggery to do what would have been impossible in a stand-up fight. Knowing that they would never have given or accepted quarter should have made it easier, but the wild abandon of a few minutes before had drained clean away. Orrin Ravelle was a fraud after all; he was plain Locke Lamora once again.
He threw up behind a pile of canvas and netting, using the spear to hold himself up until the heaving stopped.
“Gods above!”
Locke wiped his mouth as Jabril and a pair of Orchids slipped down through the cargo hatch, holding to the rim of the deck rather than leaping. They didn’t seem to have caught him puking.
“Four of ’em,” continued Jabril. His tunic had been partly torn away above a shallow cut on his chest. “Fuck me, Ravelle. I thought Valora scared the piss out of me.”
Locke took a deep breath to steady himself. “Jerome. Is he all right?”
“Was a minute ago. Saw him and Lieutenant Delmastro fighting on the quarterdeck.”
Locke nodded, then gestured aft with his spear. “Stern cabin,” he said. “Follow me. Let’s finish this.”
He led them down the length of the flute’s main deck at a run, shoving unarmed, cowering crewfolk out of the way as he passed. The armored door to the stern cabin was shut, and behind it Locke could hear the sound of frantic activity. He pounded on the door.
“We know you’re in there,” he yelled, and then turned to Jabril with a tired grin. “This seems awfully familiar, doesn’t it?”
“You won’t get through that door,” came a muffled shout from within.
“Give it some shoulder,” said Jabril.
“Let me try being terribly clever first,” said Locke. Then, raising his voice: “First point, this door may be armored, but your stern windows are glass. Second point, open this fucking door by the count of ten or I’ll have every surviving crewman and woman put to death on the quarterdeck. You can listen while you’re doing whatever it is you’re doing in there.”
A pause; Locke opened his mouth to begin counting. Suddenly, with the ratcheting clack of heavy clockwork, the door creaked open and a short, middle-aged man in a long black jacket appeared.
“Please don’t,” he said. “I surrender. I would have done it sooner, but the Redeemers wouldn’t have it. I locked myself in after they chased me down here. Kill me if you like, but spare my crew.”
“Don’t be stupid,” said Locke. “We don’t kill anyone who doesn’t fight back. Though I suppose it’s nice to know you’re not a complete asshole. Ship’s master, I presume?”
“Antoro Nera, at your service.”
Locke grabbed him by his lapels and began dragging him toward the companionway. “Let’s go on deck, Master Nera. I think we’ve dealt with your Redeemers. What the hell were they doing aboard, anyway? Passengers?”
“Security,” muttered Nera. Locke stopped in his tracks.
“Are you that fucking dim-witted, that you didn’t know they’d go berserk the first time someone dangled a fight in front of their noses?”
“I didn’t want them! The owners insisted. Redeemers work for nothing but food and passage. Owners thought … perhaps they’d scare off anyone looking for trouble.”
“A fine theory. Only works if you advertise their presence, though. We didn’t know they were aboard until they were charging us in a fucking phalanx.”
Locke went up the companionway, dragging Nera behind him, followed by Jabril and the others. They emerged into the bright light of morning on the quarterdeck. One of the men was hauling down the flute’s colors, and he was knee-deep in bodies.
There were at least a dozen of them. Redeemers, mostly, with their green head-cloths fluttering and their expressions strangely satisfied. But here and there were unfortunate crewfolk, and at the head of the stairs a familiar face—Aspel, the front of his chest a bloody ruin.
Locke glanced around frantically and sighed when he saw Jean, apparently untouched, crouched near the starboard rail. Lieutenant Delmastro was at his feet, her hair unbound, blood running down her right arm. As Locke watched, Jean tore a strip of cloth from the bottom of his own tunic and began binding one of her wounds.
Locke felt a pang that was half relief and half melancholy; usually it was him that Jean was picking up in bloody pieces at the end of a fight. Ducking away from Jean had been a matter of split-second necessity in the heat of the struggle. He realized that he was strangely disquieted that Jean hadn’t followed him, relentlessly at his heels, looking after him as always.
Don’t be an ass, he thought. Jean had his own bloody problems.
“Jerome,” he said.
Jean’s head darted around, and his lips nearly formed an “L” sound before he got himself under control. “Orrin! You’re a mess! Gods, are you all right?”
A mess? Locke looked down and discovered that nearly every inch of his clothing was soaked in blood. He ran a hand over his face. What he’d taken for sweat or beer came away red on his palm.
“None of it’s mine,” he said. “I think.”
“I was about to come looking for you,” said Jean. “Ezri … Lieutenant Delmastro …”
“I’ll be fine,” she groaned. “Bastard tried to hit me with a mizzenmast. Just knocked the wind out of me.”
Locke spotted one of the huge brass-studded clubs lying on the deck near her, and just beyond it, a dead Redeemer with one of Delmastro’s characteristic sabers planted in his throat.
“Lieutenant Delmastro,” said Locke, “I’ve brought the ship’s master. Allow me to introduce Antoro Nera.”
Delmastro pushed Jean’s hands away and crawled p
ast him for a better view. Lines of blood ran from cuts on her lip and forehead.
“Master Nera. Well met. I represent the side that’s still standing. Appearances to the contrary.” She grinned and wiped at the blood above her eyes. “I’ll be responsible for arranging larceny once we’ve secured your ship, so don’t piss me off. Speaking of which, what ship is this?”
“Kingfisher,” said Nera.
“Cargo and destination?”
“Tal Verrar, with spices, wine, turpentine, and fine woods.”
“That and a fat load of Jeremite Redeemers. No, shut up. You can explain later. Gods, Ravelle, you have been busy.”
“Too fucking right,” said Jabril, slapping him on the back. “He killed four of them himself in the hold. Rode a beer cask down on one, and must’ve fought the other three straight up.” Jabril snapped his fingers. “Like that.”
Locke sighed, and felt his cheeks warming. He reached up and put a bit of the blood back where he’d found it.
“Well,” said Delmastro, “I won’t say that I’m not surprised, but I am pleased. You’re not fit to tend so much as a fishing boat, Ravelle, but you can lead boarding parties whenever you like. I think we just redeemed about half of Jerem.”
“You’re too kind,” said Locke.
“Can you get this ship into order for me? Clear the decks of crewfolk and put them all under guard at the forecastle?”
“I can. Will she be all right, Jerome?”
“She’s been smacked around and cut up a bit, but—”
“I’ve had worse,” she said. “I’ve had worse, and I’ve certainly given it back. You can go with Ravelle if you like.”
“I—”
“Don’t make me hit you. I’ll be fine.”
Jean stood up and came over to Locke, who shoved Nera gently toward Jabril.
“Jabril, would you escort our new friend to the forecastle while Jerome and I scrape up the rest of his crew?”
“Aye, be pleased to.”
Locke led Jean down the quarterdeck stairs, into the tangle of bodies amidships. More Redeemers, more crewfolk … and five or six of the men he’d pulled out of Windward Rock three weeks before. He was uncomfortably aware that the survivors all seemed to be staring at him. He caught snatches of their conversation:
“… laughing, he was …”
“Saw it as I came up the side. Charged them all by himself …”
“Never seen the like.” That was Streva, whose left arm looked broken. “Laughed and laughed. Fucking fearless.”
“… ‘the gods send your doom, motherfuckers.’ That’s what he told them. I heard it.…”
“They’re right, you know,” whispered Jean. “I’ve seen you do some brave and crazy shit, but that was … that was—”
“It was all crazy and none brave. I was out of my fucking head, get it? I was so scared shitless I didn’t know what I was doing.”
“But in the hold below—”
“I dropped a cask on one,” said Locke. “Two more got their throats slit while they were still dumb. The last was kind enough to slip in beer and make it easy. Same as always, Jean. I’m no bloody warrior.”
“But now they think you are. You pulled it off.”
They found Mal, slumped against the mainmast, unmoving. His hands were curled around the sword buried in his stomach, as though he were trying to keep it safe. Locke sighed.
“I have what you might call mixed feelings about that right now,” he said.
Jean knelt down and pushed Mal’s eyelids closed. “I know what you mean.” He paused, seeming to weigh his words before continuing. “We have a serious problem.”
“Really? Us, problems? What ever could you mean?”
“These people are our people. These people are thieves. Surely you see it too. We can’t sell them out to Stragos.”
“Then we’ll die.”
“We both know Stragos means to kill us anyway—”
“The longer we string him along,” said Locke, “the closer we get to pulling off some part of our mission, the closer we are to a real antidote. The more time we get, the greater the chance he’ll slip … and we can do something.”
“We can do something by siding with our own kind. Look around you, for the gods’ sake. All these people do to live is steal. They’re us. The mandates we live by—”
“Don’t fucking lecture me about propriety!”
“Why not? You seem to need it—”
“I’ve done my duty by the men we brought from Tal Verrar, Jean. But they and all of these people are strangers. I aim to have Stragos weeping for what he’s done, and if I have to spare them to achieve that, by the gods, I’ll spare them. But if I have to sink this ship and a dozen like it to bring him down, I’ll damn well do that, too.”
“Gods,” Jean whispered. “Listen to yourself. I thought I was Camorri. You’re the pure essence. A moment ago you were morose for the sake of these people. Now you’d fucking drown them all for the sake of your revenge!”
“Our revenge,” said Locke. “Our lives.”
“There has to be another way.”
“What do you propose, then? Stay out here? Spend a merry few weeks in the Ghostwinds, and then politely die?”
“If necessary,” said Jean.
The Poison Orchid, under reduced sail, drew near the stern of the Kingfisher, putting herself between the flute and the wind. The men and women lining the Orchid’s rail let loose with three raucous cheers, each one louder than the last.
“Hear that? They’re not cheering the scrub watch,” said Jean. “They’re cheering their own. That’s what we are, now. Part of all this.”
“They’re str—”
“They’re not strangers,” said Jean.
“Well.” Locke glanced aft, at Lieutenant Delmastro, who’d risen to her feet and taken the Kingfisher’s wheel. “Maybe some of them are less strange to you than they are to me.”
“Now, wait just a—”
“Do what you have to do to pass the time out here,” said Locke, scowling. “But don’t forget where you come from. Stragos is our business. Beating him is our business.”
“ ‘Pass the time’? Pass the gods-damned time?” Jean sucked in an angry breath. He clenched his fists, and for a second looked as though he might grab Locke and shake him. “Gods, I see what’s twisting under your skin. Look, you may be resigned to the fact that the only woman you’ll ever consider is years gone. But you’ve been screwed down so tight about that, for so long, that you seem to think the rest of the world keeps your habits.”
Locke felt as though he’d been stabbed. “Jean, don’t you even—”
“Why not? Why not? We carry your precious misery with us like a holy fucking relic. Don’t talk about Sabetha Belacoros. Don’t talk about the plays. Don’t talk about Jasmer, or Espara, or any of the schemes we ran. I lived with her for nine years, same as you, and I’ve pretended she doesn’t fucking exist to avoid upsetting you. Well, I’m not you. I’m not content to live like an oath-bound monk. I have a life outside your gods-damned shadow.”
Locke stepped back. “Jean, I don’t … I didn’t—”
“And quit calling me Jean, for fuck’s sake.”
“Of course,” said Locke coldly. “Of course. If we keep this up we’ll be breaking character for good. I can prowl below myself. You get back to Delmastro. She’s holding on to that wheel to stay on her bloody feet.”
“But—”
“Go,” said Locke.
“Fine.” Jean turned to leave, then paused one last time. “But understand—I can’t do it. I’ll follow you to any fate, and you know it, but I can’t fuck these people over, even for our own sake. And even if you think it’s for our sake … I can’t let you do it, either.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means you have a lot to think about,” said Jean, and he stomped away.
Small parties of sailors had begun slipping over from the Orchid. Utgar rushed up to Locke,
red-faced with excitement, leading a group of crewfolk carrying lines and fend-offs to help hold the ships alongside one another.
“Sweet Marrows, Ravelle, we just found out about the Redeemers,” Utgar said. “Lieutenant told us what you did. Fuckin’ amazing! A job well done!”
Locke glanced at the body of Mal resting against the mainmast, and at Jean’s back as he approached Delmastro with his hands out to hold her up. Not caring who saw, he flung his saber down at the deck planks, where it stuck tip-first, quivering from side to side.
“Oh, indeed,” he said. “It seems I win again. Hooray for winning.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ALL ELSE, TRUTH
1
“BRING THE PRISONERS FORWARD,” said Captain Drakasha.
It was full night on the deck of the Poison Orchid, and the ship rode at anchor beneath a star-pierced sky. The moons had not yet begun to rise. Drakasha stood at the quarterdeck rail, backlit by alchemical lamps, wearing a tarpaulin for a cloak. Her hair was covered by a ludicrous woolen wig, vaguely resembling the ceremonial hairpiece of a Verrari magistrate. The deck fore and aft was crowded with shadowed crewfolk, and in a small clear space amidships stood the prisoners.
Nineteen men from the Red Messenger had survived the morning’s fight. Now all nineteen stood, bound hands and feet, in an awkward bunch at the ship’s waist. Locke shuffled forward behind Jean and Jabril.
“Clerk of the court,” said Drakasha, “you have brought us a sad lot.”
“A sad lot indeed, Your Honor.” Lieutenant Delmastro appeared beside the captain, clutching a rolled scroll and wearing a ridiculous wig of her own.
“As wretched a pack of dissolute, cockless mongrels as I’ve ever seen. Still, I suppose we must try them.”
“Indeed we must, ma’am.”
“With what are they charged?”
“Such a litany of crimes as turns the blood to jam.” Delmastro opened the scroll and raised her voice as she read. “Willful refusal of the kind hospitality of the archon of Tal Verrar. Deliberate flight from the excellent accommodations provided by said archon at Windward Rock. Theft of a naval vessel with the stated intention of applying it to a life of piracy.”