by Scott Lynch
“Do you have children, Orrin?”
“No.”
“The instant I decide that you are presuming to lecture me on their behalf, this conversation will end with you going over this rail to make the acquaintance of whatever’s down there.”
“That’s not at all what I meant. It’s just—”
“Have people on land acquired the secret of living forever? Have they abolished accidents? Have they ceased to have weather in my absence?”
“Of course not.”
“How much more danger are my children truly in than some poor bastard conscripted to fight in his duke’s wars? Or some penniless family dying of a plague with their neighborhood quarantined, or burnt to the ground? Wars, disease, taxes. Bowing heads and kissing boots. There’s plenty of hungry damn things prowling on land, Orrin. It’s just that the ones at sea tend not to wear crowns.”
“Ah—”
“Was your life a paradise before you sailed the Sea of Brass?”
“No.”
“Of course not. Listen well. I thought that I’d grown up in a hierarchy where mere competence and loyalty were enough to maintain one’s station in life,” she whispered. “I gave an oath of service and imagined that oath was binding in both directions. I was a fool. And I had to kill an awful lot of men and women to escape the consequences of that foolishness. Would you really ask me to place my trust, and my hopes for Paolo and Cosetta, in the same bullshit that nearly killed me before? Which system of laws should I bend to, Orrin? Which king or duke or empress should I trust like a mother? Which of them is a better judge of my life’s worth than I am? Can you point them out to me, write a letter of introduction?”
“Zamira,” said Locke, “please don’t make me out to be some sort of advocate for things that I’m not; it seems to me that my whole life has been spent in the willful disdain of what you’re talking about. Do I strike you as a law-and-order sort of fellow?”
“Admittedly not.”
“I’m just curious, is all. I do appreciate this. Tell me now—what about the Free Armada? Your so-called War for Recognition? Why profess such hatred for … laws and taxes and all those strictures, if that was essentially what you were fighting to emplace down here?”
“Ah.” Zamira sighed, removed her four-cornered hat, and ran her fingers through her breeze-tossed hair. “Our infamous Lost Cause. Our personal contribution to the glorious history of Tal Verrar.”
“Why did you start it?”
“Bad judgment. We all hoped … Well, Captain Bonaire was persuasive. We had a leader, a plan. Open mines on new islands, tap some of the safe forests for wood and resin. Pillage as we liked until the other powers on the Sea of Brass came wringing their hands to the bargaining table, and then beat the shit out of them with authorized trade. We imagined a realm without tariffs. Montierre and Port Prodigal swelling up with merchants and their imported fortunes.”
“Ambitious.”
“Idiotic. I was newly escaped from one sour allegiance and I leapt right into another. We believed Bonaire when she said that Stragos didn’t have the clout to come down and mount a serious fight.”
“Oh. Hell.”
“They met us at sea. Biggest action I ever saw, and the soonest lost. Stragos put hundreds of Verrari soldiers on his ships to back the sailors; we never stood a chance in close action. Once they had the Basilisk they stopped taking prisoners. They’d board a ship, scuttle it, and move on to the next. Their archers put shafts into anyone in the water, at least until the devilfish came.
“I needed every trick I had just to get the Orchid out. A few of us straggled back to Prodigal, beat to hell, and even before we got there the Verrari pounded Montierre into the sand. Five hundred dead in one morning.
After that, they sailed back home and I imagine there was a lot of dancing, fucking, and speeches.”
“I think,” said Locke, “you can take a city like Tal Verrar … and you can threaten its purse strings or its pride, and get away with it. But not if you threaten both at once.”
“You’re right. Maybe Stragos was impotent when Bonaire left the city; whatever he was, we united Tal Verrar’s interests behind him. We summoned him up like some demon out of a story.” She folded her arms over her hat and leaned forward, resting her elbows against the taffrail. “So, we stayed outlaws. No flowering for the Ghostwinds. No glorious destiny for Port Prodigal. This ship is our world now, and I only take her in when her belly’s too full to prowl.
“Am I making myself clear, Orrin? I don’t regret how I’ve lived these past few years. I move where I will. I set no appointments. I guard no borders. What land-bound king has the freedom of a ship’s captain? The Sea of Brass provides. When I need haste, it gives me winds. When I need gold, it gives me galleons.”
Thieves prosper, thought Locke. The rich remember.
He made his decision, and gripped the rail to avoid shaking.
“Only gods-damned fools die for lines drawn on maps,” said Zamira. “But nobody can draw lines around my ship. If they try, all I need to do to slip away is set more sail.”
“Yeah,” said Locke. “But … Zamira, what if I were forced to tell you that that may no longer be the case?”
6
“HAVE YOU really been practicing on barrels, Jerome?”
They’d laid claim to a bottle of Black Pomegranate brandy from one of the crates broken open amidst the revelers, and taken it back to their spot by the rail.
“Barrels. Yes.” Jean took a sip of the stuff, dark as distilled night, with a sting like nettles beneath the sweetness. He passed the bottle back to her. “They never laugh, they never ridicule you, and they offer no distractions.”
“Distractions?”
“Barrels don’t have breasts.”
“Ah. So what have you been telling these barrels?”
“This bottle of brandy,” said Jean, “is still too full for me to begin embarrassing myself like that.”
“Pretend I’m a barrel, then.”
“Barrels don’t have br—”
“So I’ve heard. Find the nerve, Valora.”
“You want me to pretend that you’re a barrel so I can tell you what I was telling barrels back when I was pretending they were you.”
“Precisely.”
“Well.” He took another long sip from the brandy bottle. “You have … you have such hoops as I have never seen in any cask on any ship, such shiny and well-fit hoops—”
“Jerome—”
“And your staves!” He decided it was a good time to take another drink. “Your staves … so well planed, so tightly fit. You are as fine a cask as I have ever seen, you marvelous little barrel. To say nothing of your bung—”
“Ahem. So you won’t share your sweet nothings?”
“No. I am utterly emboldened in my cowardice.”
“ ‘Man! What a mouse he is made by conversation,’ ” Ezri recited. “ ‘Scorns gods, dares battle, and flinches from a maid’s rebuke! Merest laugh from merest girl is like a dagger felt, and like a dagger, makes a lodging of his breast. Turns blood to milkwater and courage to faint memory.’ ”
“Ohhhhh, Lucarno, is it?” Jean tugged at his beard thoughtfully. “ ‘Woman, your heart is a mapless maze. Could I bottle confusion and drink it a thousand years, I could not confound myself so much as you do between waking and breakfast. You are grown so devious that serpents would applaud your passage, would the gods but give them hands.’ ”
“I like that one,” she said. “The Empire of Seven Days, right?”
“Right. Ezri, forgive my asking, but how the hell do you—”
“It’s no more odd than the fact that you know any of this.” She took the bottle from him, tipped it back for a long draught, and then raised her free hand. “I know. I’ll give you a hint. ‘I have held the world from meridian to meridian in my hands and at my whim. I have received the confessions of emperors, the wisdom of magi, the lamentations of generals.’ ”
“You had a libr
ary? You have a library?”
“Had,” she said. “I was the sixth of six daughters. I imagine the novelty wore off. Mother and father could afford live companions for the older five. I made do with all the dead playmates in mother’s books.” With her next drink she drained the last of the bottle, and with a grin she tossed it overboard. “So what’s your excuse?”
“My education was, ah, eclectic. Did you ever … When you were little, do you remember a toy of wooden pegs, in various shapes, that would fit into matching holes on a wooden frame?
“Yes,” she said. “I got my sisters’ when they tired of it.”
“You might say that I was trained to be a professional square peg in a round hole.”
“Really? Is there a guild for that?”
“We’ve been working on getting a charter for years.”
“Did you have a library as well?”
“After a fashion. Sometimes we’d … borrow someone else’s without their knowledge or cooperation. Long story. But there’s one other reason. I’ll give you a verse of your own to guess. ‘After dark,’ ” he recited with a flourish, “ ‘an ass with an audience of one is called a husband; an ass with an audience of two hundred is called a success.’ ”
“You were … on stage,” she said. “You were a player! Professionally?”
“Temporarily,” said Jean. “Very temporarily. I was … well … we …,”He glanced aft and instantly regretted it.
“Ravelle,” Ezri said, then looked at Jean curiously. “You and he were … you two are having some sort of disagreement, aren’t you?”
“Can we not talk about him?” Jean, feeling bold and nervous at once, put a hand on her arm. “Just for tonight. Can he not exist?”
“We can indeed not talk about him,” she said, shifting herself so that her weight rested against his chest rather than the rail. “Tonight,” she said, “nobody else exists.”
Jean stared down at her, suddenly acutely aware of the beat of his own heart. The rising moonlight in her eyes, the feel of her warmth against him, the smell of brandy and sweat and salt water that was uniquely hers—suddenly the only thing he was capable of saying was, “Uhhhhhh …”
“Jerome Valora,” she said, “you magnificent idiot, must I draw you a diagram?”
“Of—”
“Take me to my cabin.” She curled the fabric of his tunic in one fist. “I have the privilege of walls and I intend to use it. At length.”
“Ezri,” Jean whispered, “never in a hundred, never in a thousand years would I say no, but you were cut half to ribbons today, and you can barely stand—”
“I know,” she said. “That’s the only reason I’m confident I’m not going to break you.”
“Oh, for that I’m going to—”
“I certainly hope you will.” She threw her arms wide. “First get me there.”
He picked her up with ease; she settled into his arms and wrapped hers around his neck. As Jean swung away from the rail and headed for the quarterdeck stairs, he found himself facing an arc of thirty or forty Merry Watch revelers. They raised their arms and began cheering wildly.
“Put your names on a list,” hollered Ezri, “so I can kill you all in the morning!” She smiled and turned her eyes back to Jean. “Or maybe it’ll have to wait for the afternoon.”
7
“JUST LISTEN,” said Locke. “Listen, please, with as open a mind as you can manage.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Your, ah, deduction about Jerome and myself is commendable. It does make sense, but for the parts that I’ve concealed until now. Starting with myself. I’m not a trained fighter. I’m a bloody miserable fighter. I have tried to be otherwise, but the gods know, it’s always comedy or tragedy before I can blink.”
“That—”
“Zamira. Heed this. I didn’t kill four men with anything resembling skill. I dropped a beer cask on a man too dumb to look up. I slit the throats of two more who got knocked aside by the cask. I did the fourth when he slipped in beer. When everyone else found the bodies, I let them make their own assumptions.”
“But I know for a fact that you charged those Redeemers all by yourself—”
“Yes. People who are about to die frequently go out of their minds. I should have died ten seconds into that fight, Zamira. It was Jerome who made it otherwise. Jerome and only Jerome.”
At that moment, a loud cheer abruptly rose above the noise of the near carnival at the ship’s waist. Locke and Zamira both turned in time to see Jean appear at the top of the quarterdeck stairs with Lieutenant Delmastro in his arms. Neither of them so much as glanced aft at Locke and the captain; a few seconds later they were vanishing down the companionway.
“Well,” said Zamira, “to win that heart, even for a night, your friend Jerome must be even more extraordinary than I thought.”
“He is extraordinary,” Locke whispered. “He continues to save my life, time and time again, even when I don’t deserve it.” He returned his gaze to the Orchid’s roiling, glowing, monster-haunted wake. “Which is always, more or less.”
Zamira said nothing, and after a few moments Locke continued.
“Well, after he did it again this morning, I slipped and fumbled and ran like hell until the fight was over. That’s all. Panic and dumb luck.”
“You still led the boats. You still went up first, not knowing what was waiting for you.”
“All bullshit. I’m a bullshit artist, Zamira. A false-facer. An actor, an impersonator. I didn’t have any noble motives when I made that request. My life just wasn’t worth much if I didn’t do something utterly crazy to win back some respect. I faked every second of composure anyone glimpsed this morning.”
“The fact that you consider that extraordinary only tells me that it really was your first actual battle.”
“But—”
“Ravelle, anyone in command feigns ease when death is near. We do it for those around us, and we do it for ourselves. We do it because the sole alternative is to die cringing. The difference between an experienced leader and an untested one is that only the untested one is shocked at how well they can pretend when their hand is forced.”
“I don’t believe this,” said Locke. “When I first came aboard, I couldn’t impress you enough to make you spit in my face. Now you’re making my excuses for me. Zamira, Jerome and I never worked for the Priori. I’ve never even met a Priori except in passing. The fact is that we’re still working for Maxilan Stragos as we speak.”
“What?”
“Jerome and I are thieves. Professional, independent thieves. We came to Tal Verrar on a very delicate job of our own design. The archon’s … intelligence services figured out who and what we were. Stragos poisoned us, a latent poison for which only he can supply the antidote. Until we get it or secure some other remedy, we’re his puppets.”
“To what possible end?”
“Stragos handed us the Red Messenger, allowed us to take a crew from Windward Rock, and built up a parchment trail concerning an imaginary disgruntled officer named Orrin Ravelle. He gave us our sailing master—the one whose heart seized on us before we hit the storm—and sent us out here on his business. That’s how we got the ship. That’s how we tweaked Stragos’ nose in such an unlikely fashion. All was to his design.”
“What’s he after? Someone in Port Prodigal?”
“He wants the same thing you gave him last time you crossed paths. He’s all but at war with the Priori, and he’s feeling his years. If he’s going to seize anything resembling popularity ever again, the time is now. He needs an enemy outside the city to bring his army and navy back into favor. That’s you, Zamira. Nothing would be more convenient for Stragos than a wider outbreak of piracy near his city in the next few months.”
“Which is exactly why the Brass Sea captains have avoided going anywhere near Tal Verrar for the last seven years! We learned our lesson the bitter way. If he comes looking for a brawl, we’ll duck and run before we’ll grant h
im one.”
“I know. And so does he. Our job—our mandate—is to find some way to stir up trouble down here regardless. To get you to fly the red flag close enough for common Verrari to see it from the public outhouses.”
“How the hell did you ever plan on accomplishing this?”
“I had some half-assed idea to spread rumors, offer bribes. If you hadn’t hit the Messenger, I would have tried to kindle a mess myself. But that was before we had any hint to the real state of things out here. Now Jerome and I obviously need your help.”
“To do what?”
“To buy time. To convince Stragos that we’re succeeding on his behalf.”
“If you think for one second that I’ll do anything to aid the archon—”
“I don’t,” said Locke, “and if you think for one second that I truly mean to aid him, you haven’t been listening. Stragos’ antidote is supposedly good for two months. That means Jerome and I must be in Tal Verrar in five weeks to get another sip. And if we have no progress to claim, he may simply decide to fold his investment in us.”
“If you have to leave us to return to Tal Verrar,” she said, “that’s unfortunate. But you can find an independent trader in Port Prodigal; they’re never more than a few days apart. We have arrangements with a number of them that call in Tal Verrar and Vel Virazzo. You’ll have enough money from your shares to buy passage.”
“Zamira, you have more wit than this. Listen. I have spoken personally to Stragos several times. Been lectured, is more the word. And I believe him. I believe that this is his last chance to put his foot down on the Priori and truly rule Tal Verrar. He needs an enemy, Zamira. He needs an enemy that he knows he can crush.”
“Then it would be madness to acquiesce to his plan by provoking him.”
“Zamira, this fight is coming to you regardless of your intentions. You are all he has. You are the only foe that suits. He’s already sacrificed a ship, a veteran sailing master, a galley crew’s worth of prisoners, and a considerable amount of his own prestige just to put Jerome and me in play. As long as we’re out here, as long as you’re helping us, then you’ll know exactly where his plans rest, because we’ll be running them from your ship. If you ignore us, I have no idea what he’ll try next. All I know is that he will have other designs, and you won’t be privy to them.”