The Gentleman Bastard Series Books 1-3

by Scott Lynch

  “But … please, I was told—”

  “Whoever told you anything wasn’t me.”

  “I … I dont—”

  “Scholar,” said Drakasha, “can you do anything for the man you’re working on?”

  “He won’t be dancing anytime soon,” said Treganne, “but yes, he’ll pull through.”

  Drakasha shifted her grip on Nera and held him by his tunic collar with her free hand. She took two steps to her right and, barely looking, drove her saber down into the dead sailor’s neck. Treganne flinched backward and gave the corpse’s legs a little push to make it look as though they’d kicked. Nera gasped.

  “Medicine is such an uncertain business,” said Drakasha.

  “In my cabin,” said Nera. “A hidden compartment by the compass above my bed. Please … please don’t kill any more of—”

  “I didn’t, actually,” said Drakasha. She withdrew her saber from the corpse’s throat, wiped it on Nera’s breeches, and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Your man died a few minutes ago. My leech says she can save the rest of your injured without trouble.”

  She spun Nera around, slashed the rope that bound his hands, and shoved him toward Locke with a grin. “Return him to his people, Ravelle, and then kindly relieve his secret compartment of its burden.”

  “Your will, Captain.”

  After that, they began taking the Kingfisher apart more eagerly than newlyweds tearing off layers of formal clothing in their first moment of privacy. Locke felt his fatigue vanishing as he became absorbed in what was essentially one vast robbery, for more physical material than he’d ever stolen before in his life. He was passed from duty to duty among Orchids who laughed and clowned with real spirit, but worked with haste and precision for all that.

  First they snatched up anything portable and reasonably valuable—bottles of wine, Master Nera’s formal wardrobe, bags of coffee and tea from the galley, and several crossbows from the Kingfisher’s tiny armory. Drakasha herself appraised the ship’s collection of navigational instruments and hourglasses, leaving Nera the bare minimum required to safely work his vessel back to port.

  Next, Utgar and the boatswain scoured the flute from stem to stern, using the surviving scrub watch as mules to haul off stores and equipment of nautical use: alchemical caulk, good sail canvas, carpenter’s tools, barrels of pitch, and loop after loop of new rope.

  “Good shit, hey,” said Utgar, as he weighed Locke down with about fifty pounds of rope and a box of metal files. “Much too expensive in Port Prodigal. Always best to get it at what we call the broadside discount.”

  Last but not least came the Kingfisher’s cargo. All the main-deck hatch gratings were pulled, and a nearly incomprehensible network of ropes and pulleys was rigged on and between the two ships. By noon, crates and casks and oilcoth-wrapped bundles were being lighted along to the Poison Orchid. It was everything Nera had promised and more—turpentine, oiled witchwood, silks, crates of fine yellow wine padded with sheepskins, and barrel after barrel of bulk spices. The smell of cloves, nutmeg, and ginger filled the air; after an hour or two of work at the hoists Locke was brown with a sludge that was half sweat and half powdered cinnamon.

  At the fifth hour of the afternoon Drakasha called a halt to the forcible transfusion of wealth. The Poison Orchid rode lower in the gleaming water and the lightened flute rolled freely, hollowed out like an insect husk about to fall from a spider’s jaws. Drakasha’s crew hadn’t stripped her clean, of course. They left the Kingfishers their casks of water, salted meat, cheap ale, and pink-piss ration wine. They even left a few crates and parcels of valuables that were too deeply or inconveniently stowed for Drakasha’s taste—nonetheless, the sack was thorough. Any land-bound merchant would have been well pleased to have a ship unloaded at the dock with such haste.

  A brief ceremony was held at the taffrail of the Kingfisher; Zamira blessed the dead of the two vessels in her capacity as a lay priestess of Iono. Then the corpses went over the side, sewn into old canvas with Redeemer weapons weighing them down. The Redeemers themselves were then thrown overboard without a word.

  “Ain’t disrespectful,” said Utgar when Locke whispered to him about this. “Far as they believe, they get consecrated and blessed and all that fine stuff by their own gods the moment they die. No hard feelings if you just tip the heathens over the side afterward. Helpful thing to know if you ever have to kill a bunch of ’em again, hey?”

  At last, the day’s long business was truly concluded; Master Nera and his crew were released to tend to their own fortunes once again. While Drakasha’s archers kept watch from their perches on the yardarms, the network of lines and fend-offs between the two ships was pulled apart. The Poison Orchid hauled up her boats and loosed her sails. In minutes, she was making seven or eight knots to the southwest, leaving the Kingfisher adrift in disarray behind her.

  Locke had seen little of Jean all day, and both of them had seemed to work to studiously preserve their separation. Just as Locke had thrown himself into manual labor, Jean had remained with Delmastro on the quarterdeck. They didn’t come close enough to speak again until the sun fell beneath the horizon, and the scrub watch was herded together and bound for their initiation.

  3

  ALL THE new initiates and half the ship’s old company were on the Merry Watch, fueled by rack after rack of the fine eastern wines they’d plucked from the Kingfisher. Locke recognized some of the labels and vintages. Stuff that wouldn’t sell in Camorr for less than twenty crowns a bottle was being sucked down like beer, or poured into the hair of celebrating men and women, or simply spilled on deck. The Orchids, men and women alike, were mixing eagerly with the ex-Messengers now. Dice games and wrestling matches and song-circles had erupted spontaneously. Propositions spoken and unspoken were everywhere. Jabril had vanished belowdecks with a crew-woman at least an hour before.

  Locke took it all in from the shadows of the starboard side, just below the raised quarterdeck. The starboard stairs weren’t flush with the rail; there was space enough for a lean person to wedge comfortably between the two. “Ravelle” had been greeted warmly and eagerly enough when he’d circulated on deck, but now that he’d found a cozy exile nobody seemed to be missing him. In his hands was a large leather jack full of blue wine that was worth its weight in silver, untouched.

  Across the great mass of laughing, drinking sailors, Locke could make out Jean at the ship’s opposite rail. While Locke watched, the shape of a woman, much shorter, approached him from behind and reached out toward him. Locke turned away.

  The water slipped past, a black gel topped with curls of faintly phosphorescent foam. The Orchid was setting a good pace through the night. Laden, she yielded less than before to the chop of the sea, and was parting these little waves like they were air.

  “When I was a lieutenant apprentice,” said Captain Drakasha, “on my first voyage with an officer’s sword, I lied to my captain about stealing a bottle of wine.”

  She spoke softly. Startled, Locke looked around and saw that she was standing directly over him, at the forward quarterdeck rail.

  “Not just me,” she continued. “All eight of us in the apprentices’ berth. We ‘borrowed’ it from the captain’s private stores and should have been smart enough to pitch it over the side when we’d finished.”

  “In the … navy of Syrune, this was?”

  “Her Resplendent Majesty’s Sea Forces of Syrune Eternal.” Drakasha’s smile was a crescent of white against darkness, faint as the foam topping the waves. “The captain could have had us whipped, or reduced in rank, or even chained up for formal trial on land. Instead she had us strike down the royal yard from the mainmast. We had a spare, of course. But she made us scrape the varnish off the one we’d taken down.… This is a spar of oak, you know, ten feet long and thick as a leg. The captain took our swords and said they’d be restored if and only if we ate the royal yard. Tip to tip, every last splinter.”

  “Ate it?”

 
“A foot and a quarter of sturdy oak for each of us,” said Drakasha. “How we did it was our business. It took a month. We tried everything. Shaving it, scraping it, boiling it, pulping it. We had a hundred tricks to make it palatable, and we forced it down, a few spoonfuls or chips a day. Most of us got sick, but we ate the yard.”

  “Gods.”

  “When it was over, the captain said she’d wanted us to understand that lies between shipmates tear the ship apart, bit by bit, gnawing at it just as we’d gnawed the royal yard down to nothing.”

  “Ah.” Locke sighed and at last took a sip of his warm, excellent wine. “I take it this means I’m due for a bit more dissection, then?”

  “Come join me at the taffrail.”

  Locke rose, knowing it wasn’t a request.

  4

  “I NEVER knew that dispensing justice could be so tiring,” said Ezri, appearing at Jean’s right elbow as he stood staring out over the Orchid’s larboard rail. One of the moons was just starting to rise in the south, half a silver-white coin peeking above the night horizon, as though lazily considering whether it was worth rising at all.

  “You’ve had a long day, Lieutenant.” Jean smiled.

  “Jerome,” she said, reaching out to set a hand upon his right forearm, “if you call me ‘lieutenant’ again tonight, I’ll kill you.”

  “As you wish, Lieu … La … something-other-than-’Lieutenant’-that-starts-with-’Lieu,’ honest.… Besides, you already tried to execute me once this evening. Look how that turned out.”

  “Best way possible,” she said, now leaning against the rail beside him. She wasn’t wearing her armor, just a thin tunic and a pair of calf-length breeches without hose or shoes. Her hair was free, waves of dark curls rustling in the breeze. Jean realized that she was putting most of her weight against the rail and trying hard not to show it.

  “Uh, you got a little too close to a few blades today,” he said.

  “I’ve been closer. But you, now … you’re … you’re a very good fighter, do you know that?”

  “It’s been s—”

  “Gods, how wretched was that? Of course you’re a good fighter. I meant to say something much wittier, honest.”

  “Then consider it said.” Jean scratched his beard and felt a warm, welcome sort of nervousness fluttering in his stomach. “We can both pretend. All of the, um, effortlessly witty nonsense I’ve been practicing on the barrels in the hold for days has taken flight, too.”

  “Practicing, hmmm?”

  “Yeah, well.… That Jabril, he’s a sophisticated fellow, isn’t he? Need a bit of conversation to catch his attention, won’t I?”

  “What?”

  “Didn’t you know I only fancied men? Tall men?”

  “Oooh, I kicked you to the deck once, Valora, and I’m about to—”

  “Ha! In your condition?”

  “My condition is the only thing saving your life at the moment.”

  “You wouldn’t dare heap abuse on me in front of half the crew—”

  “Of course I would.”

  “Well, yes. True.”

  “Look at this lovely, noisy mess. I don’t think anyone would even notice if I set you on fire. Hell, down in the main-deck hold there’s couples going at it packed tighter than spears in the arms lockers. You want real peace and quiet any time tonight, closest place you might find it is two or three hundred yards off one of the bows.”

  “No, thanks. I don’t know how to say ‘stop eating me’ in shark.”

  “Well then, you’re stuck here with us. And we’ve been waiting for you lot to get off the scrub watch for long enough.” She grinned up at him. “Tonight everyone gets to know everyone else.”

  Jean stared at her, eyes wide, not knowing what to say or do next. Her grin became a frown.

  “Jerome, am I … doing something wrong?”

  “Wrong?”

  “You keep sort of moving away. Not just with your body, but with your neck. You keep …”

  “Oh, hell.” Jean laughed, reached out to put a hand on her shoulder, and felt himself burst into an uncontrollable twit-grin when she reached up to hold it there. “Ezri, I lost my optics when you … made us swim, the day we came aboard. I’m what they call near-blind. I guess I didn’t realize it, but I’ve been fidgeting to keep you in focus.”

  “Oh, gods,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. Keeping you in focus is worth the trouble.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “I know.” Jean felt the anxious pressure in his stomach migrating upward to fill his chest, and he took a deep breath. “Look, we almost got killed today. Fuck these games. Do you want to have a drink with me?”

  5

  “WATCH,” SAID Drakasha.

  Locke stood at the taffrail, looking down into the ship’s phosphorescent wake between the glow of two stern lanterns. Those lanterns were glowing glass orchids the size of his head, transparent petals drooping delicately toward the water.

  “Gods,” said Locke, shuddering.

  Between the wake and the lanterns, there was just enough light for him to spot it—a long black shadow sliding beneath the Poison Orchid’s trail of disturbed water. Forty or fifty feet of something sinuous and sinister, using the ship’s wake to conceal itself. Captain Drakasha had one boot up on the taffrail and an expression of casual pleasure on her face.

  “What the hell is it?”

  “Five or six possibilities,” said Drakasha. “Might be a whaleworm or a giant devilfish.”

  “Is it following us?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it … um, dangerous?”

  “Well, if you drop your drink over the rail, don’t jump in after it.”

  “Don’t you think you should maybe let it have a few arrows?”

  “I might, if only I were sure that this was the fastest it could swim.”

  “Good point.”

  “Fling arrows at all the strange things you see out here, Ravelle, and all you do is run out of arrows.” She sighed and glanced around to ensure that they were more or less alone. The closest crewman was at the wheel, eight or nine yards forward. “You made yourself very useful today.”

  “Well, the alternative just didn’t suit.”

  “I thought I was abetting a suicide when I agreed to let you lead the boats.”

  “You nearly were, Captain. It was … Look, it was inches from disaster the whole way, that fight. I don’t even remember half of it. The gods blessed me by allowing me to avoid soiling my breeches. Surely you know what it’s like.”

  “I do. I also know that sometimes these things aren’t accidents. You and Master Valora have … excited a great deal of comment for what you did in that battle. Your skills are unusual for a former master of weights and measures.”

  “Weighing and measuring is a boring occupation,” said Locke. “A man needs a hobby.”

  “The archon’s people didn’t hire you by accident, did they?”

  “What?”

  “I said I’d peel this strange fruit you call a story, Ravelle, and I have been. My initial impression of you wasn’t favorable. But you’ve … done better. And I think I can understand how you kept your old crew in thrall despite your ignorance. You seem to have a real talent for improvised dishonesty.”

  “Weighing and measuring is a very, very boring—”

  “So you’re a master of a sedentary occupation who just happened to have a talent for espionage? And disguise? And command? Not to mention your skill at arms, or that of your close and unusually educated friend Jerome?”

  “Our mothers were so very proud of us.”

  “You weren’t hired away from the Priori by the archon,” said Drakasha. “You were double agents. Planted provocateurs, intended to enter the archon’s service. You didn’t steal that ship because of some insult you won’t speak of; you stole it because your orders were to damage the archon’s credibility. To do something big.”

  “Uh …”


  “Please, Ravelle. As if there could be any other reasonable explanation.”

  Gods, what a temptation, Locke thought. A mark actually inviting me to step into her own misconception, free and clear. He stared at the phosphorescent wake, at the mysterious something swimming beneath it. What to do? Take the opening, cement the Ravelle and Valora identities in Drakasha’s mind, work from there? Or … his cheeks burned as the sting of Jean’s rebuke rose again in his memory. Jean hadn’t just criticized him on theological grounds, or because of Delmastro. It was a matter of approaches. Which would be more effective?

  Treat this woman as a mark, or treat her as an ally?

  Time was running out. This conversation was the point of decision; follow his instincts and play her, or follow Jean’s advice and … attempt to trust her. He thought furiously. His own instincts—were they always impeccable? Jean’s instincts—arguments aside, had Jean ever done anything but try to protect him?

  “Tell me something,” he said very slowly, “while I weigh a response.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Something half the size of this ship is probably staring at us as we speak.”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you stand it?”

  “You see things like this often enough, you get used—”

  “Not just that. Everything. I’ve been at sea a grand total of six or seven weeks in my life. How long have you been out here?”

  She stared at him, saying nothing.

  “Some things about myself,” said Locke, “I won’t tell you just because you’re the captain of this ship, even if you throw me back in the hold or pitch me over the side. Some things … I want to know who I’m talking to first. I want to talk to Zamira, not to Captain Drakasha.”

  Still she remained silent.

  “Is that asking so very much?”

  “I’m nine and thirty,” she said at last, very quietly. “I first sailed when I was eleven.”

  “Nearly thirty years, then. Well, like I said, I’ve been out here a few weeks. And in that time—storms, mutiny, seasickness, battles, flit-wraiths … hungry damn things lurking all over the place, waiting for someone to dip a toe in the water. It’s not that I haven’t enjoyed myself at times; I have. I’ve learned things. But … thirty years? And children as well? Don’t you find it all … chancy?”