by Scott Lynch
“Quiet,” said Zamira. “Lost your purse last night, didn’t you? Ravelle has fast hands. Fast hands, a quick mind, a talent for command, and a way with a blade. He earned his way onto my crew by killing four Jeremite Redeemers by himself.” Zamira felt vaguely amused to be talking Kosta up with the same half-truths he’d worked so hard to disabuse her of.
“Yet you said he had his own ship,” said Rodanov.
“Yes. The Red Messenger, sold off to the Shipbreaker just this afternoon. Pierro, you saw it off the Burning Reach a few days ago, didn’t you?”
“Indeed.”
“There I was, going about my business, innocently scooping up prizes here and there on the Sea of Brass,” said Zamira, “when I happened upon Ravelle’s Messenger. Interrupted his plans, to say the least. I poked holes in his story until I squeezed it all out of him, more or less.”
“What story is that?” Rance sounded as though she had a collection of small rocks in her mouth, but she made herself understood.
“Think about it, Rance. Who is Ravelle? One man—a thief, clearly. Trained to do many unusual things. But could one man sail a brig out of the gated harbors in the Sword Marina? Could one man break into Windward Rock, overcome every guard there, free an entire vault full of prisoners, and pack them off in his brig, conveniently stolen the very same night?”
“Uh,” said Rance. “Well, possibly—”
“He didn’t do it alone.” Colvard spoke for the first time, quietly, but her voice drew the eyes of everyone on the pavilion. “Stragos must have let him escape.”
“Precisely,” said Zamira. “Stragos let him escape. Stragos gave him a crew of prisoners eager for any sort of freedom. Stragos gave him a ship. And he did all this knowing full well that Ravelle would sail south. Come down to join us in our trade.”
“He wanted an agent among us,” said Strozzi, uncharacteristically excited.
“Yes. More than that.” Zamira gazed around the circle of pirates, ensuring that she had their undivided attention before she continued. “He has an agent among us. Aboard my ship. Orrin Ravelle and his companion Jerome Valora are currently in the archon’s service.”
Ezri whipped her head around to stare at Zamira, mouth open. Zamira squeezed her arm unobtrusively.
“Kill them,” said Colvard.
“The situation is more complicated and more grave than that,” said Zamira.
“Grave indeed, for these two men you speak of. I find it best to make corpses of complications.”
“Had I discovered their deceit on my own, it would already be done. But Ravelle is the one who confessed these things to me. He and Valora are, by his claim, entirely unwilling agents. Stragos gave them a latent poison, to which he alone supposedly holds the antidote. Another month will bring them due for their next dose.”
“Death would be a favor, then,” mumbled Rance. “That bastard will never let them be anything but puppets.”
Rodanov waved for her to pipe down. “What, to hear it from Ravelle’s lips, was their mission? To spy on us, I presume?”
“No, Jaffrim.” Zamira put her hands behind her back and began to slowly pace the center of the pavilion. “Stragos wants us to do him the favor of flying the red flag in sight of Tal Verrar again.”
“That makes no sense,” said Strozzi.
“It does when you consider the archon’s needs,” said Colvard.
“How?” Rance and Strozzi spoke in unison.
“I hear that things are brittle between the archon and the Priori,” said Colvard. “If something were to come along and put a fright into the fine citizens of Tal Verrar, their regard for the army and navy would rise.”
“Stragos needs a foe from outside Tal Verrar,” said Zamira. “He needs it with all haste, and he needs to be assured that his forces can kick it around with a will.” She spread her arms wide, toward her fellow captains and their mates. “We might as well be painted like archery butts.”
“There’s no profit,” said Strozzi, “in bringing a fight to us—”
“For those that take their profit in coin, you’re right. But for Stragos, it means everything. He gambled a ship, a crew of prisoners, and his very reputation on Ravelle’s mission. You don’t think he’s serious? He made a laughingstock of himself by allowing a ‘pirate’ to escape from his secure harbors, all so he could wait to redeem himself by crushing us later.” Zamira brought her fists together. “That was Ravelle’s task—convince us, trick us, lie to us, bribe us. And if we couldn’t be made to serve, his plan was to do it himself, in the Messenger.”
“Then our course is obvious,” said Rodanov. “We don’t give Stragos a damn thing. We don’t dance around his noose. We keep five hundred miles between ourselves and Tal Verrar, as we have since the war. If need be, we play meek for a few months.” He reached over and gave Strozzi’s paunch a hearty slap. “We live off our fat.”
“If we do that much,” said Ydrena Koros, “begging your pardon, Captain. This evidence of yours, Captain Drakasha—the word of these two men seems thinner than—”
“Not just their word,” said Zamira. “Think, Koros. They had the Red Messenger. Its crew, the survivors of which are now my crew, did indeed come from Windward Rock. The archon sent them, all right.”
“I concur,” said Colvard, “though I also agree with Jaffrim that standing down from provocation is the wisest—”
“Would be wisest,” interrupted Zamira, “if Stragos was doing this on a whim. But he’s not, is he? He’s in the fight of his life. His very position is at stake. He needs us.”
She paced the center of the pavilion again, reminded of the “arguments” she’d put forth over the years in her pretend turns as a magistrate for initiation rituals. Were these theatrics any more convincing? She hoped to the gods they were.
“If we tip Ravelle and Valora over the side and ignore them,” she said, “or shy away from Tal Verrar, Stragos will try something else. Some other scheme to trick us into a fight, or to convince his people that we’re bringing one. Only next time, the gods may not see fit to allow the instruments of his design to fall into our hands. We’ll be blind.”
“There’s more hypothesis here,” said Rodanov, “than just about anything I ever heard at the collegium.”
“The Red Messenger and the prisoners do indicate that Stragos took a gamble,” said Colvard. “That he took a gamble indicates that he can’t move openly or with confidence. Knowing what we do of the situation in Tal Verrar … I’d say this threat is real. If Stragos requires an enemy, we are the only suitor at this dance that fits his need. What else can he do? Pick a fight with Balinel? Camorr? Lashain? Karthain? I hardly think so.”
“What would you have us do, Zamira?” Rodanov folded his arms and scowled.
“We possess the means to strike back at the archon.”
“We can’t fight the Verrari navy,” said Rodanov. “Nor can we storm the damn city, summon lightning from the sky, or ask the gods to politely dispose of Stragos for us. So by what means may we ‘strike back’? Wound his feelings with vicious letters?”
“Ravelle and Valora are expected to report directly to him when they receive their antidote.”
“They have access to him,” said Colvard. “An assassination!”
“For which they suffer the blame, assuming they live,” mused Strozzi.
“Good for them,” said Rodanov. “And what, you wished our consent to take them back to Tal Verrar and let them loose? By all means let fly. I’d be happy to lend them a pair of knives.”
“There is, from the perspective of Ravelle and Valora, only one minor complication. That they would prefer to acquire a permanent antidote, and then do away with Stragos.”
“Alas,” said Rance, “we so rarely realize our desires in life—”
“Tell them that we have an antidote,” said Colvard. “Convince them that we have the means to free them from their condition. Then set them loose upon the archon.… Whether they survive the assassination or not wi
ll be of no consequence.”
Ezri opened her mouth to disagree, and Zamira fixed her with the most withering glare in her long-practiced arsenal.
“Marvelously devious,” said Zamira, when she was certain that Ezri would mind herself. “But too convenient. In their position, would you ever believe such a claim?”
“My skull is beginning to spin,” said Strozzi. “What the hell do you wish to do, Zamira?”
“I wish,” she said, enunciating each word very carefully, “for none of you to be alarmed if I should find it necessary to raise a bit of ruckus in the immediate vicinity of Tal Verrar.”
“And thereby call down our destruction,” shouted Rodanov. “Do you want to see Port Prodigal sacked like Montierre? Do you want to see us scattered halfway across the world, and our unguarded trade routes filled with angry Verrari warships?”
“If I do anything,” said Zamira, “discretion would be—”
“Impossible,” growled Rodanov. “This will finish the job Stragos began when he crushed the Free Armada. This will destroy our way of life!”
“Or preserve it.” Zamira put her hands on her hips. “If Stragos is determined to push us, he will push us, whether we would dance his tune or no. I have aboard my ship our means, our only means, of taking the fight to him. If Stragos is knocked aside, the archonate falls with him. And if the Priori rule Tal Verrar, we can loot this sea at our own merry pace until the day we die.”
“Why,” said Strozzi, “would you want to play along with the archon’s design, even with … discretion?”
“Ravelle and Valora aren’t saints,” said Zamira. “They’re not looking to throw their lives away for our benefit. They want to live, and to do that they need time. If Stragos believes they’re hard at work on his behalf, he’ll grant them the weeks or months necessary to find a solution. And in the meantime, he’s likely to stay his other plans.”
“Those weeks and months may instead be time enough for him to rouse his city,” said Rodanov.
“You must trust me to be delicate,” said Zamira. “As brother and sister captains, that’s what I’m asking in the end. No matter what you hear from Tal Verrar—trust my judgment.”
“A significant request,” said Colvard. “You ask no aid from any of us?”
“I can’t think of anything that would be more counterproductive than for all of us to show up one morning off Tal Verrar, can you? The archon would have his war in about ten minutes. So leave this task to me. A risk to my ship alone.”
“A risk to us all,” said Rodanov. “You’re asking us to put our fates, and that of Port Prodigal, in your hands. Without any oversight.”
“How has it been otherwise, these past seven years?” She stared around the circle at each captain in turn. “Each of us has always been at the mercy of the others. Any one of us could have raided too far north, attacked a ship carrying someone’s royal cousin, murdered too many sailors, or simply grown too greedy to ignore. We’ve been in peril all the way. I’m merely doing you the courtesy of pointing it out in advance for once.”
“And if you fail?” asked Rance.
“If I fail,” said Zamira. “There’ll be no penalty for you to levy. I’ll already be dead.”
“Our oaths of noninterference,” said Colvard. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? A promise to keep our swords in their scabbards while you throw the most important rule of our … association out your stern window.”
“In lieu of any better alternatives,” said Zamira, “yes. That’s exactly what I’m asking for.”
“And if we say no?” Rodanov spoke quietly. “If we, four against one, forbid this?”
“Then we come to a line that we all fear to cross,” said Zamira, matching his stare.
“I won’t forbid it,” said Rance. “I’ll vow to keep my hands off you, Zamira. If you sweat for my gain, so much the better. And if you die in the process, I’ll mourn you not.”
“I’ll give my oath as well,” said Colvard. “Zamira’s right. Our collective safety at any given time depends on whichever one of us is the bloody craziest. If there’s a chance to kick Maxilan off his pedestal, I pray for your success.”
“Obviously Zamira Drakasha votes with Zamira Drakasha,” Zamira said, turning her gaze to Rodanov and Strozzi.
“I don’t like any of this,” said Strozzi. “But if things go to shit, no ship afloat on this sea can run like my Osprey.” He smiled and cracked his knuckles. “What the hell. You wave your skirt at the archon and see if he’s up for a fondle. I won’t be anywhere near it.”
“It seems,” said Rodanov once all eyes had turned to him, “that I have the opportunity to be … unsociable.” He sighed and rubbed his forehead. “I don’t think any of this is wise—but if I may take your promise of discretion to be as binding as my oath of noninterference … very well. Go spring this insane scheme.”
“Thank you,” said Zamira, feeling a warm flush of relief from head to toe. “Wasn’t that easier than cutting one another to pieces?”
“This needs to stay between us,” said Colvard. “I don’t ask for an oath; I expect it. Stragos may have other eyes and ears in Prodigal. If this gets out to anyone not standing here, the time we’ve spent at this meeting—not to mention Zamira’s mission—will be an utter waste.”
“Right,” said Strozzi. “Silence. All gods as our witness.”
“All gods as our witness,” the others echoed.
“Will you leave immediately?” asked Colvard.
“My crew needs a night ashore. I can’t ask them back out without that much. I’ll send them in halves, sell off the rest of my swag as fast as I can. Clear the harbor in two or three days.”
“Three weeks to Tal Verrar,” said Rodanov.
“Right,” said Zamira. “No point in any of this if our lads drop dead en route. I intend to be hasty.” She stepped up to Rodanov, put one hand on his right cheek, and stood on her toes to kiss his other. “Jaffrim, have I ever let you down?”
“Never since the war,” said Rodanov. “Ah, shit. Even that was a poor thing to say. Don’t put me on the spot like this, Zamira. Just … don’t fuck this up.”
“Hey,” said Colvard, “how can I get some of that attention?”
“I’m feeling generous, but keep your hands to yourself if you prefer to keep them attached.” She smiled, kissed Colvard in the middle of her wrinkled forehead, and gave the old woman a hug. Gingerly, because it took pains to accommodate all the swords and daggers the two of them were wearing.
Always thus, thought Zamira. Always thus in this life.
3
UTGAR WAS the one waiting at the entry port to offer a hand when Zamira and Ezri went back up the side of the Poison Orchid. It was half past the tenth hour of the evening.
“Welcome back, Captain. How you be?”
“I’ve spent the day arguing with the Shipbreaker and the council of captains,” Zamira muttered. “I require my children and I require a drink. Ezri—”
“Yes?”
“You, Ravelle, Valora. My cabin, immediately.”
Once in her cabin, Zamira threw her coat, sabers, Elderglass vest, and hat haphazardly onto her hammock. She settled onto her favorite chair with a groan and welcomed Paolo and Cosetta onto her lap. She lost herself in the familiar smell of their curly dark hair, and gazed with absolute satisfaction at their little fingers as she caught them in her own rough hands. Cosetta’s, still so tiny and uncertain … Paolo’s, growing longer and more dexterous by the week. Gods, they were growing too fast, too fast.
Their familiar chatter calmed her to the marrow; apparently Paolo had spent the afternoon fighting monsters that lived in her sea chest, while Cosetta now had plans to grow up to be king of the Seven Marrows. Zamira briefly considered explaining the difference between a king and a queen, and deemed it not worth the effort; contradicting Cos would only lead to days of circular argument.
“Be king! Seven marers!” the little girl said, and Zamira nodded solemnly.
/> “Remember your poor family when you come into your kingdom, darling.”
The door opened, and Ezri appeared with Kosta and Valora … or should that be de Ferra? Damn these layered aliases.
“Lock the door,” said Zamira. “Paolo, fetch Mommy four glasses. Ezri, can you do the business on one of those bottles of Lashani Blue? They’re right behind you.”
Paolo, overawed at his responsibility, set four small tumblers out on the lacquered table atop the sea chests. Kosta and de Ferra found seats on floor cushions, and Ezri made quick work of the waxed cork sealing the bottle. The smell of fresh lemons filled the cabin, and Ezri filled each tumbler to the brim with wine the color of the ocean depths.
“Alas, I’m bereft of toasts,” said Zamira. “Sometimes one merely needs a drink. Have at it.” Holding Cos with her left arm, Zamira downed her wine in one go, relishing the mingled tastes of spice and citrus, feeling the prickles of icy heat slide down her throat.
“Want,” said Cosetta.
“This is a Mommy drink, Cos, and you wouldn’t like its taste.”
“Want!”
“I said—oh, very well. Can’t fear the fire if you don’t scald your fingertips.” She poured the merest dash of the blue wine into her tumbler and handed it carefully to Cos. The girl took it up with an expression of the utmost solemnity, tipped it back into her mouth, and then dropped it on the tabletop with a clatter.
“Like piss,” she hollered, shaking her head.
“There are some drawbacks,” said Zamira as she caught the tumbler before it went over the edge, “to raising children among sailors. But then I myself am no doubt making the largest contribution to her vocabulary.”
“Piiiisssss,” yelled Cosetta, giggling and immensely pleased with herself. Zamira shushed her.
“I have a toast,” said Kosta, smirking and raising his glass. “To clear perception. I have just now, after all these weeks, realized who the real captain of this vessel is.”
De Ferra chuckled and clinked tumblers with him. Ezri, however, left her wine untouched on the table before her and stared down at her hands. Zamira resolved to make this quick; Ezri clearly needed to be alone with Jerome.