by Scott Lynch
“I’ll…I’ll keep it like it were my own.”
“No,” said Drakasha, “keep it like it’s mine.”
She led them off the jetty and up a gently sloping sand path bordered by canvas tents, roofless log cabins, and partially collapsed stone buildings. Jean could hear the snores of sleeping people within those decrepit structures, plus the soft bleat of goats, the growls of mongrel dogs, and the flutter of agitated chickens. A few cookfires had burned down to coals, but there were no lanterns or alchemical lights hung out anywhere on this side of town.
A pungent stream of piss and night soil was trickling down the right-hand side of the path, and Jean stepped carefully to avoid it, as well as a sprawled corpse damming the flow about fifty yards up from the jetty. The occasional semilucid drunk or pipe smoker stared at them from various nooks and shadows, but they weren’t spoken to until they crested a rise and found stones beneath their feet once again.
“Drakasha,” shouted a corpulent man in leathers with blackened-iron studs, “welcome back to civilization!” The man carried a dim lantern in one hand and a bronze-ringed club in the other. Behind him was a taller fellow, scruffy and potbellied, armed with a long oak staff.
“Handsome Marcus,” said Drakasha. “Gods, you get uglier every time I come back. Like someone’s slowly sculpting an ass out of a human face. Who’s the new charmer?”
“Guthrin. Wise lad decided to give up sailing and join the rest of us big swinging cocks in the glamorous life.”
“Yeah? Well,” Drakasha said, holding out a closed fist and shaking it so that the coins inside clinked against one another, “I found these in the road. They belong to you?”
“I got a happy home for ’em right here. See now, Guthrin, that’s the style. Show this lady some favor and she returns the compliment. Fruitful voyage, Captain?”
“Belly so full we can’t swim anymore, Marcus.”
“Good on you, Captain. You’ll want to hear from the Shipbreaker, then?”
“Nobody wants to hear from that waste of a working asshole, but if he wants to open his purse and bend over, I’ve got a little something in wood and canvas for his collection.”
“I’ll pass the word. You in for the night?”
“Toehold, Marcus. Just here to fly the flag.”
“Fine idea.” He glanced around briefly, and then his voice grew more serious. “Chavon Rance has the high table at the Crimson. Just so you can look all-knowing when you walk in the door.”
“Obliged to you.”
When the two men had strolled on their way down the path toward the jetty, Jean turned to Ezri. “Guards of some sort?”
“Maintainers,” she said. “More like a gang. Sixty or seventy of them, and they’re what we have for order around here. Captains pay them a little out of every load they bring in, and they beat the rest of their living out of public nuisances. You can pretty much do as you like, long as you hide the bodies and don’t burn anything down or wake up half the city. Do that and the Maintainers come out to do a bit of maintaining.”
“So what’s ‘flying the flag,’ exactly?”
“Gotta play these games sometimes,” said Ezri. “Let everyone in Prodigal know that Zamira’s back, that she’s got a hold full of swag, that she’ll kick their heads in for looking at her cross-eyed. You know? Especially her brother and sister captains.”
“Ah. I’m with you.”
They entered the city proper; here, at least, were the lights they’d seen from out in the bay, pouring from open windows and doors on both sides of the street. The buildings here had started as respectable stone homes and shops, but time and mischief had marked their faces. Broken windows were covered over with planking from ships or scraps of tattered sailcloth. Many of the houses sprouted leaning wooden additions that looked unsafe to approach, let alone live in; others grew wattle-and-daub third or fourth stories like mushrooms from their old roofs.
Jean felt a sudden pang of grudging nostalgia. Drunkards lying senseless in the alleys. Larcenous children eyeing their party from the shadows. Maintainers in long leather coats thumping some poor bastard senseless behind a cart with no wheels. The sounds of swearing, argument, laughter, and ale sickness pouring from every open window and door…This place was, if not quite a fraternal relation to Camorr, at least a first cousin.
“Orchids,” hollered someone from a second-story window. “Orchids!”
Zamira acknowledged the drunken shout with a casual wave, and turned right at a muddy crossroads. From the dark mouth of an alley a heavyset man stumbled, wearing nothing but soiled breeches. He had the glassy, unfocused eyes of a Jeremite powder-smoker, and in his right hand was a serrated knife the length and width of Jean’s forearm.
“Coin or suck,” said the man, threads of saliva dangling down his chin. “Don’t care which. Got needs. Give us a—”
If he was oblivious to the fact that he was facing eight opponents, he wasn’t oblivious to Rask knocking his blade hand aside and shoving him back into the alley by his neck. What happened next took only a few seconds; Jean heard a wet gurgle, and then Rask was stepping back out into the street, wiping one of his own knives on a rag. He threw this rag into the alley behind him and hooked his thumbs into his belt. Ezri and Drakasha seemed to think the incident not even worthy of comment, and they strolled on, casual as temple-goers on Penance Day morning.
“Here we are,” said Ezri as they reached the top of another small hill. A wide, half-paved square, its muddy sections crisscrossed by overlapping wagon tracks, was dominated by a fat two-story building with a portico constructed around the chopped-off stern facing of an old ship. Time, weather, and no doubt countless brawls had scuffed and chipped its elaborate scrollwork, but people could be seen drinking and reveling behind the second-story windows, in what would have been the great cabin. Where the rudder had once been mounted was now a heavy double door, flanked by alchemical globes (the round thick kind that were nearly impossible to break) in an approximation of stern lanterns.
“The Tattered Crimson,” Ezri continued. “It’s either the heart of Port Prodigal or the asshole, depending on your perspective.”
To the left of the entryway was a ship’s longboat, mounted to the building by heavy wooden struts and iron chains. A few human arms and legs seemed to be sticking out of it. As Jean watched, the doors to the Tattered Crimson slammed outward and a pair of brutes emerged, carrying a limp old man between them. Without ceremony or pity, they heaved him into the boat, where his arrival caused some incoherent shouting and flailing of limbs.
“Now watch your step,” said Ezri, grinning. “Get too drunk to stand and they throw you overboard. Some nights there’s ten or twenty people piled up in that boat.”
A moment later Jean was squeezing past those brutes, into the familiar smells of a busy tavern at an hour closer to dawn than dinner. Sweat, scalded meat, puke, blood, smoke, and a dozen kinds of bad ale and wine: the bouquet of the civilized nightlife.
The place looked to be constructed for a clientele that would be waging war not just on one another but on the bar and pantry. The bar itself, at the far side of the room, was enclosed from countertop to ceiling by iron panels, leaving only three narrow windows through which the staff could serve drinks and food like archers firing from murder-holes.
There were only floor tables down here, in the Jereshti fashion; low surfaces around which men and women sat, knelt, or lay on scuffed cushions. In the cavelike fug of the dimly lit room, they played cards and dice, smoked, drank, arm wrestled, argued, and tried to laugh off the attention of the prowling heavies who were obviously looking for candidates to toss into the boat outside.
Conversation wavered as Drakasha’s party appeared; cries of “Orchids!” and “Zamira’s back!” could be heard. Drakasha nodded to the room at large and slowly turned her gaze up to the second floor.
Stairs went up either side of the common room; at the sides, the second floor was little more than a railed walkway. Above the bar
and the entry, it expanded into wider balconies with Therin-style tables and chairs. Jean presumed that the “high table” was the one he’d glimpsed from the outside. A moment later Drakasha began to move toward the stairs that led in that very direction.
A sudden current of excitement rose in the air: too many conversations halted absolutely; too many eyes followed their passage. Jean cracked his knuckles and prepared himself for things to get interesting.
Atop those stairs was a railed alcove backed by the windows overlooking the darkened square from which they’d just come. Red silk banners hung in niches with alchemical globes behind them, giving off a low, vaguely ominous rose-tinted light. Two wide tables had been pushed together to accommodate a party of twelve, all clearly sailors and toughs much, Jean realized to his own amusement, like themselves.
“Zamira Drakasha,” said the woman at the head of the table, rising from her chair. She was young, roughly Jean’s own age, with the sun-browned skin and faint lines edging her eyes that told of years spent on the water. Her sand-colored hair was drawn back into three tails, and though shorter than Zamira she looked to outweigh her by about two stone. Tough and round, this one, with a well-worn saber hilt visible at her belt.
“Rance,” said Drakasha, “Chay. It’s been a long night, love, and you know full well you’re sitting at my table.”
“That’s damn peculiar. It’s got our drinks on top of it, and our asses in its chairs. You think it’s yours, maybe you should take it with you when you’re out of town.”
“When I’m away on my business, you mean. Fighting my ship, flying the red flag. You know where the sea is, right? You’ve seen other captains coming and going—”
“I don’t have to break myself month in and month out, Drakasha. I just pick richer targets in the first place.”
“You’re not hearing me, Chay. I really don’t care what sort of dog gnaws bones at my place when I’m gone,” said Drakasha, “but when I come back I expect her to crawl under the table where she belongs.”
Rance’s people exploded out of their chairs, and she raised a hand, grinning fiercely. “Pull steel, you dusty cunt, and I’ll kill you fair in front of witnesses. Then the Maintainers can haul your crew back to the docks for brawling and Ezri here can see how your brats like the taste of her tits—”
“Show your hand, Rance. You think you’re fit to keep this spot?”
“Name the test and I’ll leave you weeping.”
“We’re going to have the house brutes on us—,” Jean whispered to Ezri.
“No,” she said, waving him to silence. “Calling out isn’t like plain brawling. Especially not between captains.”
“For the table,” shouted Drakasha, reaching for a half-empty bottle, “all the Crimson as our witness, the contest is drinks. First on her ass takes her sorry crew and moves down to the floor.”
“I was hoping for something that’d take longer than ten minutes,” said Rance. “But I accept. You be my guest with that bottle.”
Zamira looked around, then snatched two small clay cups of equal size from places previously occupied by Rance’s crewfolk. She tossed their contents onto the tabletop, then refilled them from the bottle. It was white Kodari brandy, Jean saw, rough as turpentine, packing quite a sting. Rance’s crew backed up against the windows, and Rance herself came around the table to stand beside Zamira. She lifted one of the cups.
“One thing,” said Zamira. “You’re gonna take your first drink Syrune-fashion.”
“What the hell’s that?”
“Means you drink it through your fucking eyes.” Drakasha’s left arm was a blur as she whipped her own cup from the tabletop and dashed its contents into Rance’s face. Before Rance could even scream, Drakasha’s right arm came up just as fast. Her gloved fist, rings and all, met Rance’s jaw with the sound of a cracking whip, and the younger woman hit the floor so hard the cups atop the table rattled.
“Are you on your ass down there, love, or is that your head? Anybody think there’s a difference?” Drakasha stood over Rance and slowly tipped the contents of the second clay cup into her own mouth. She swallowed it all without flinching and tossed the cup over her shoulder.
“You said it was gonna be—”
Before Rance’s angry crewman, probably her first mate, could finish his protest Locke stepped forward with his hand upraised.
“Zamira kept her oath. The test was a drink, and your captain’s on her ass.”
“But—”
“Your captain should’ve had the wit to be more specific,” said Locke, “and she lost. You going to take her oath back for her?”
The man grabbed Locke by the front of his tunic. The two of them scuffled briefly and Jean darted forward, but before the situation went to hell Rance’s sailor was hauled back, grudgingly but firmly, by his friends.
“Who the hell are you, anyway?” he shouted.
“Orrin Ravelle,” said Locke.
“Never fucking heard of you.”
“I think you’ll remember me, though.” Locke dangled a small leather pouch in front of the man. “Got your purse, prickless.”
“You motherfu—”
Locke gave the purse a hard toss backward, and it landed somewhere down among the hundred or so patrons watching the action on the balcony with eyes wide and mouths open.
“Oops,” said Locke, “but I’m sure you can rely on all the upstanding folks down there to keep it safe for you.”
“Enough!” Zamira reached down, grabbed Rance by the collar, and hoisted her to a sitting position. “Your captain called it and your captain lost. Is she your captain?”
“Yes,” said the man, scowling.
“Then keep her oath.” Zamira dragged Rance to the head of the stairs and knelt in front of her. “Not such a very regal bitch after all, eh, Chay?”
Rance reared back to spit blood in Drakasha’s face, but the older captain’s slap was faster, and the blood spewed out across the stairs.
“Two things,” said Zamira. “First, I’m calling the council for tomorrow. I’ll expect to see you there at the usual place and time. Nod your silly head.”
Rance nodded, slowly.
“Second, I don’t have brats. I have a daughter and a son. And if you ever forget that again, I’ll carve your fucking bones into toys for them.”
With that, she heaved Rance down the stairs. By the time she landed in a heap at the bottom, her chagrined crew was hurrying after her, under the triumphant stares of Drakasha’s party.
“See you around…Orrin Ravelle,” said the purseless sailor.
“Valterro,” said Zamira sternly, “this was all business. Don’t make it personal.”
The man looked no happier, but he moved off with the rest of Rance’s crew.
“That bit about your children sounded very personal,” whispered Jean.
“So I’m a hypocrite,” muttered Drakasha. “You want to protest, you can take a drink Syrune-fashion.” Zamira moved to the rail overlooking the main floor and raised her voice to a shout. “Zacorin! You hiding down there somewhere?”
“Hiding’s the word, Drakasha,” came a voice from behind the windows of the armored bar. “War over yet?”
“If you’ve got a cask of anything that doesn’t taste like pig sweat, send it up. And some meat. And Rance’s bill. Poor dear needs all the help she can get.”
There was an outbreak of laughter across the floor. Rance’s crew, carrying her out by her arms and legs, didn’t look even vaguely amused.
“So that’s that,” said Zamira, settling into the chair Rance had just vacated. “Make yourselves comfortable. Welcome to the high table at the Tattered Crimson.”
“Well,” said Jean as he took a seat between Locke and Ezri, “did that go as you hoped?”
“Oh yeah.” Ezri smirked at Drakasha. “Yeah, I’d say our flag is flown.”
8
THEY DID their best to look relaxed and amused for the better part of an hour, helping themselves to the Crim
son’s mediocre dark ale and all the better liquors Rance’s crew had left behind. Grease-blanketed duck was the dish of the evening; most of them treated it as decoration, but Rask and Konar gradually brutalized it down to a pile of bones.
“So what do we do now?” asked Locke.
“Word’ll go out to all the usual vultures that we’re back in,” said Drakasha. “Less than a day or two and they’ll be courting us. Liquor and rations will go first; always easiest to sell. Nautical spares and stores we keep for ourselves. As for the silks and finer things, those independent traders moored at the Hospital docks are our friends in that regard. They’ll try to clean us out for fifteen to twenty percent of market value. Good enough for us—then they haul it back across the sea and sell it at full price with innocent smiles on their faces.”
“What about the Messenger?”
“When she shows up, the Shipbreaker will pay us a visit. He’ll offer us piss in a clay bowl and we’ll talk him up to piss in a wooden jug. Then she’s his problem. She’s worth maybe six thousand solari with her rigging intact; I’ll be lucky to take him for anything near two. His crew will take her east and sell her to some eager merchant for about four; undercutting his competition and carving a fat profit at the same time.”
“Hell,” said Lieutenant Delmastro, “some of the ships on the Sea of Brass routes have been taken and resold three or four times.”
“This Shipbreaker,” said Locke, feeling a scheme in the birthing, “I take it the fact that his trade is also his name means he doesn’t have any competitors?”
“All dead,” said Delmastro. “The ugly and publicly instructive way.”
“Captain,” said Locke, “how long will all of this take? It’s nearly the end of the month, and—”
“I’m well aware of what day it is, Ravelle. It takes as long as it takes. Maybe three days, maybe seven or eight. While we’re here everyone on the crew gets at least one chance at a day and night ashore, too.”
“I—”