by Scott Lynch
“What good will it do me,” said Zamira, “to play along with you, and rouse Tal Verrar to the point that Stragos achieves his desire? We couldn’t best his fleet seven years ago, with twice our present numbers.”
“You’re not the weapon,” said Locke. “Jerome and I are the weapons. We have access to Stragos. All we need is an answer to the poison and we’ll turn on the son of a bitch like a scorpion in his breechclout.”
“For this I dangle my ship, my crew, and my children in easy reach of an enemy far beyond my strength?”
“Zamira, you spoke of the Sea of Brass as though it were a fairy kingdom, infinitely mutable, but you are lashed tight to Port Prodigal and you must know it. I don’t doubt that you could sail for any port in the world and fetch it safely, but could you live anywhere else as you do here? Sell your goods and captured ships as easily? Pay your crew so regularly? Know the waters and your fellow outlaws so well? Lurk in trade lanes half as far from the navy of any great power?”
“This is the strangest conversation I have had in years,” said Zamira, returning her hat to her head. “And probably the strangest request anyone has ever made of me. I have no way of knowing if anything you say is true. But I know this ship, and how fast she can run, if all else fails. Even Port Prodigal.”
“That is, of course, one option. Ignore me. Wait until Stragos finds some other way to have his war, or a likeness of a war. And then fly. To some other sea, some harder life. You said yourself you can’t beat the archon’s navy; you can’t strike at Stragos by force of arms. So consider this—every other choice you have will sooner or later turn into withdrawal and retreat. Jerome and I represent the sole means of attack that you will ever possess. With your help, we could destroy the archonate forever.”
“How?”
“That’s…sort of a work in progress.”
“Possibly the least reassuring thing you’ve—”
“If nothing else,” interrupted Locke, “we know that there are powerful forces in Tal Verrar balanced against the archon. Jerome and I could contact them, involve them somehow. If the archonate were abolished, the Priori would hold Tal Verrar by the purse strings. The last thing they’d want is embroilment in a useless war that might create another popular military hero.”
“Standing here at the stern of my ship, weeks away from Tal Verrar, how can you speak with any certainty of what can be done with that city’s merchants and politicians?”
“You said yourself that I had a talent for dishonesty. I often think it the only skill I have worthy of recommendation.”
“But—”
“Drakasha, this is intolerable!”
Locke and Zamira whirled, once again in unison, to find Scholar Treganne standing at the head of the companionway. She stepped toward them, limping without the support of her cane, and in her outthrust arms wriggled a chitinous black nightmare, multilegged and gleaming in the lantern light. A spider the size of a cat. She held it belly outward, and its gleaming fangs twitched indignantly.
“Dear gods, it certainly is,” said Locke.
“Treganne, what the hell is Zekassis doing out of her cage?”
“Your lieutenant has commenced an assault on the partition between our quarters,” hissed Treganne. “Intolerable noise and commotion! She was lucky to shatter only one cage with all of her knocking about, and luckier still that I was there to restrain this blameless lady—”
“So…wait, you keep that thing in your quarters?” Locke was relieved to discover that it hadn’t been prowling the ship, but only marginally so.
“Where do you think woundsilk comes from, Ravelle? Quit flinching; Zekassis is a delicate and timid creature.”
“Treganne,” said Drakasha, “as a physiker, you must be familiar with the courtship habits of the adult human female.”
“Yes, but six feet from my head is an insufferable intrusion—”
“Treganne, in my opinion, interrupting Ezri at the moment would be an insufferable intrusion. The quartermaster’s compartment across the passage is open. Fetch the carpenter to give Zek temporary accommodations, and pitch your hammock in Gwillem’s space.”
“I shall remember this indignity, Drakasha—”
“Yes, for approximately ten minutes, until some new vexation arises to claim your full attention.”
“Should Delmastro do herself some injury through her exertions,” said Treganne primly, “she may find another physiker to serve her needs. And I daresay that she may use her own abdomen to spin silk for her bandages—”
“I’m sure Ezri’s abdomen is otherwise occupied, Scholar. Please find someone to build that thing a home for the night. You won’t need to say much to convince them of your urgency.”
As Treganne stomped off in a huff with her delicate and timid creature waving its legs in protest, Locke turned back to Zamira with one eyebrow raised.
“Where did you ever—”
“The punishment for insolence to the Nicoran royal family is to be hung out to starve in an iron cage. We were in Nicora doing a bit of smuggling; Treganne was hanging there doing a bit of dying. Most of the time I don’t regret cutting her down.”
“Well. What do you say to my—”
“Mad proposal?”
“Zamira, I don’t need you to sail into Tal Verrar harbor. Just give me something to buy another few months of Stragos’ indulgence. Sack a ship or two near Tal Verrar. Quick and easy work. You know Jerome and I will be the first over the side for you. Just…let them run for the city and spread a bit of panic. Then send us in one night by boat, let us do our business, and we’ll be back with a better idea of how to turn the situation—”
“Attack ships flying the Verrari flag, then get close enough to the city to let you slip in by boat? Wait at anchor with a five thousand solari bounty on my head—”
“Now that is an injustice, Zamira, whatever else I’ve done to merit suspicion. If Jerome and I merely wanted to slip back to Tal Verrar, why would we have risked our necks in your attack this morning? And if I wanted to continue deceiving you or spying on you, why didn’t I just play along with your conclusion that we were agents of the Priori?
“Jerome and I quarreled this morning. If you spoke to Jabril before you pulled me out of your hold, you must know that I’m a divine of the Thirteenth, the Crooked Warden. You’re…our people, more or less. Our kind. It’s a matter of propriety. Jerome insisted that we tell you the truth, that we needed you as willing allies and not as dupes. I’m ashamed to say that I was too angry to agree. But he was right, and it’s not just fucking sentiment, it’s hard truth. I don’t think Jerome and I can pull this off unless you aid us with full knowledge of what we’re up to. And if you can’t or won’t do that, I think you’ve got a hell of a mess coming your way. Soon.”
Drakasha settled her right hand on the pommel of one of her sabers and closed her eyes, looking tired and vexed.
“Before anything else,” she said at last, “apart from all other considerations, we need to put in at Port Prodigal. I have cargo to sell, stores to buy, a prize to dispose of, and crew to meet up with. We’re several days out, and will be several days there. I will think on what you’ve said. One way or another, I’ll give you an answer after we’ve done our business there.”
“Thank you.”
“So it’s Leocanto, then?”
“Just keep calling me Ravelle,” said Locke. “Easier for everyone.”
“So be it. You’re on the Merry Watch and you won’t be shifted back to duty watches until tomorrow afternoon. I suggest you make good use of the night.”
“Well.” Locke glanced down at his leather cup of blue wine, suddenly thinking that maybe he could do with a few more, and perhaps a dice game to lose himself in for a few hours. “If the gods are kind I already have. Good night, Captain Drakasha.”
He left her alone at the taffrail, silently studying the monster that lurked in the Orchid ’s wake.
8
“DID THAT hurt?” whispered Ez
ri, tracing a finger across the sweat-slick skin above Jean’s ribs.
“Did it hurt? Gods above, woman, no, that was—”
“I don’t mean that.” She gave him a firm poke in the scar that arced across his abdomen beneath his right breast. “That.”
“Oh, that. No, it was wonderful. Someone came after me with a pair of Thieves’ Teeth. Felt like a warm breeze on a fine spring day. I loved every second of—oof!”
“Ass!”
“Where did you get such sharp elbows? You grind those things against a whetstone, or—oof!”
Ezri lay on top of Jean on the demi-silk hammock that took up most of the space in her compartment. It was just barely long enough for him to lie with one arm above his head (brushing the interior bulkhead of the ship’s starboard side), and he could have spanned its width between his outstretched arms. An alchemical trinket the size of a coin provided a faint silver light. Ezri’s witchwood-dark curls were touched with fey highlights; scattered strands gleamed like threads of spider silk in moonlight. He ran his hands through that damp forest of hair, massaged her warm scalp with his fingernails, and she let her muscles go slack with a gratifying moan of relaxation.
The motionless air in the compartment was thick with sweat and the trapped heat of their first endless, frantic hour together. The place was also, Jean noticed for the first time, utterly wrecked. Their clothes were scattered in purest chaos. Ezri’s weapons and few possessions littered the deck like navigational hazards. A small net containing a few books and scrolls hung from a ceiling beam and tilted toward the compartment door, indicating that the whole ship was heeled over to larboard.
“Ezri,” he muttered, staring at the stiffened canvas partition that formed their left-hand “wall.” A pair of large feet and a pair of small feet had given it a serious denting. “Ezri, whose cabin did we nearly kick our way into a little while ago?”
“Oh…Scholar Treganne’s. Who told you to stop doing that to my hair? Oh, much better.”
“Will she be pissed off?”
“More so than usual?” Ezri yawned and shrugged. “She’s free to find a lover of her own and kick it back whenever she pleases. I’m too preoccupied to be diplomatic.” She kissed Jean’s neck, and he shivered. “Besides. Night hasn’t nearly run its course yet. We may yet kick the whole damn thing down if I have my way, Jerome.”
“Then it’s your way we’ll have,” said Jean, gently shifting the weight of her body until they were lying on their sides, face-to-face. He ran his hands as carefully as he could over the stiff bandages on her upper arms, the only thing she couldn’t in good sense take off. His hands moved to her cheeks, and then to her hair. They kissed for the sort of endless moment that only exists between lovers whose lips are still new territory to each other.
“Jerome,” she whispered.
“No. Do something for me, Ezri. In private. Never call me that.”
“Why not?”
“Call me my real name.” He kissed her neck, put his lips to one of her ears, and whispered into it.
“Jean…,” she repeated.
“Gods, yes. Say that again.”
“Jean Estevan Tannen. I like that.”
“Yours and yours alone,” Jean whispered.
“Something in return,” she said. “Ezriane Dastiri de la Mastron. Dame Ezriane of the House of Mastron. Nicora.”
“Really? You have an estate or something?”
“Doubt it. Spare daughters who run away from home don’t tend to receive holdings.” She kissed him again, then ruffled his beard with her fingertips. “In fact, with the letter I left Mother and Father, I’m sure I was disinherited at the best possible speed.”
“Gods. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” She moved her fingers down to his chest. “These things happen. You keep moving. You find things here and there that help you forget.”
“You do indeed,” he whispered, and then they were too busy to talk for a good long while.
9
LOCKE WAS pulled out of his vivid thicket of dreams by a number of things: the rising heat of day, the pressure of three cups of wine in his bowels, the moans of the hungover men around him, and the sharp prick of claws from the heavy little creature sleeping on the back of his neck.
Struck by a sudden foggy memory of Scholar Treganne’s spider, he gasped in horror and rolled over, clutching at whatever was clinging to him. He blinked several times to clear the veil of slumber from his eyes, and found himself struggling not with a spider but with a kitten, narrow-faced and black-furred.
“The hell?” Locke muttered.
“Mew,” the kitten retorted, locking gazes with him. It had the expression common to all kittens, that of a tyrant in the becoming. I was comfortable, and you dared to move, those jade eyes said. For that you must die. When it became apparent to the cat that its two or three pounds of mass were insufficient to break Locke’s neck with one mighty snap, it put its paws on his shoulders and began sharing its drool-covered nose with his lips. He recoiled.
“That’s Regal,” said someone to Locke’s left.
“Regal? No, it’s ridiculous.” Locke tucked the kitten under his arm like a dangerous alchemical device. Its fur was thin and silky, and it began to purr noisily. The man who’d spoken was Jabril; Locke raised his eyebrows when he saw that Jabril was lying on his back, stark naked.
“His name,” said Jabril. “Regal. He’s got that white spot on his throat. And a wet nose, right?”
“The very one.”
“Regal. You been adopted, Ravelle. Ain’t that ironic?”
“My life’s ambition realized at last.” Locke glanced around the half-empty undercastle. Several of the new Orchids were snoring loudly; one or two were crawling to their feet, and at least one was sleeping contentedly in a pool of his own vomit. Or so Locke assumed. Jean was nowhere to be seen.
“And how was your evening, Ravelle?” Jabril pushed himself up on both elbows.
“Virtuous, I think.”
“My condolences.” Jabril smiled. “You ever met Malakasti from the Blue watch? Got the sorta red hair and the daggers tattooed on her knuckles? Gods, I don’t think she’s human.”
“You vanished early from the party, I’ll say that.”
“Yeah. She had some demands. And some friends.” Jabril massaged his temples with his right hand. “That boatswain from Red watch, fellow with no fingers on his left hand. Had no idea they taught gods-fearing Ashmiri lads them sorts of tricks. Whew.”
“Lads? I didn’t know you, ah, stalked that particular quarry.”
“Yeah, well, seems I’ll try anything once.” Jabril grinned. “Or five or six times, as it turns out.” He scratched his belly and seemed to become aware of his lack of clothes for the first time. “Hell. I remember owning breeches as recently as yesterday….”
Locke emerged into sunlight a few minutes later with Regal still tucked under his arm. As Locke stretched and yawned, the cat did the same, attempting to wriggle out of Locke’s grasp and presumably climb back atop his head. Locke held the tiny fellow up and stared at him.
“I’m not getting attached to you,” he said. “Find someone else to share your drool with.” Well aware that any mistreatment of the little fellow might get him thrown over the side, he set the kitten down and nudged him with a bare foot.
“You sure you’re authorized to give orders to that cat?” Locke turned to find Jean standing on the forecastle steps, just finishing pulling a tunic on. “Gotta be careful. He might be a watchmate.”
“If he acknowledges any rank, I think he puts himself somewhere between Drakasha and the Twelve.” Locke stared up at Jean for several seconds. “Hi.”
“Hello…”
“Look, there’s a lot of tedious ‘I was an ass’ sort of conversation to stumble through, and I’m still feeling a bit victimized by that blue wine, so let’s just assume—”
“I’m sorry,” said Jean.
“No, that’s my job.”
�
�I meant…we really found our jagged edges again, didn’t we?”
“If there’s one thing a battle isn’t, it’s calming on the nerves. I don’t blame you for…what you said.”
“We can think of something,” said Jean, quietly and urgently. “Something together. I know you’re not…I didn’t mean to insult your…”
“I deserved it. And you were right. I spoke to Drakasha last night.”
“You did?”
“I told her.” Locke grimaced, stretched again, used the motion to cover a series of hand signals. Jean followed, his eyebrows rising.
Didn’t mention Bondsmagi, Sinspire, Camorr, real names. All else, truth.
“Really?” said Jean.
“Yes.” Locke stared down at the deck. “I said you were right.”
“And how did she—”
Locke mimed a roll of the dice, and shrugged. “We’re for Port Prodigal before anything else happens,” he said. “Chores to do. Then she said…she’ll let us know.”
“I see. And so…”
“Did you have a good night?”
“Gods, yes.”
“Good. About, ah, what I said yesterday—”
“You don’t need—”
“I do. It was the dumbest of all the things I said yesterday. Dumbest and least fair. I know I’ve been…hopeless for so long I wear it like armor. I don’t begrudge you anything you have. Savor it.”
“I do,” said Jean. “Believe me, I do.”
“Good. I’m no one you want to learn from.”
“Uh, so—”
“All’s well, Master Valora.” Locke smiled, pleased to feel the corners of his mouth creeping up of their own volition. “But that wine I was talking about…”
“Wine? Did you—”
“Craplines, Jerome. I need to piss before my innards explode. You’re blocking the stairs.”
“Ah.” Jean stepped down and slapped Locke on the back. “My apologies. Free yourself, brother.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
PORT PRODIGAL
1
THE POISON ORCHID BORE WEST BY SOUTH through muggy air and moderate seas, and the days rolled by for Locke in a rhythm of chores.