Red Seas Under Red Skies

by Scott Lynch

  “Forgive me, madam, but I must know whom I’m announcing.” She stepped safely onto the dock, and he released his grip on her hand. To his surprise, she didn’t release hers, and in one smooth motion she was up against him with the menacing weight of a blackened-steel dagger touching the crook of his thigh. He gasped.

  “Heavily armed pirates, party of ninety-eight,” the woman said. “Scream or fight back and you’re going to be one surprised eunuch.”

  8

  “STAY CALM,” said Delmastro as Locke led Jean, Streva, Jabril, and Big Konar up onto the dock. “We’re all friends here. Just a wealthy family coming up for a visit to your lovely little village. City. Thing.” She kept her knife between herself and the older dock attendant, so there was no chance of anyone seeing it from more than a few feet away. Konar took the younger dock attendant, placing one arm around his shoulder as though they knew each other, and muttered something into his ear that made the color drain from the poor fellow’s face.

  Slowly, carefully, the Orchids all made their way onto the dock. At the heart of the group, those wearing layers of fine clothing tried not to make too much noise, laden down as they were with an arsenal of clattering weapons beneath their cloaks and skirts. It had been too much to suppose that the dock attendants wouldn’t notice sabers and hatchets in the belts of the rowers.

  “Here we are, then,” said Locke.

  “Looks like a nice place,” said Jean.

  “Looks are most assuredly deceiving. Now we just wait for the captain to get things started.”

  9

  “EXCUSE ME? Excuse me, sir?”

  Zamira Drakasha, alone in the Orchid ’s smallest boat, stared up at the bored-looking guard behind the ornamented gunwale of the yacht closest to her ship. That yacht, about fifteen yards long, had a single mast and banks of four oars per side. Those oars were locked upward now, poised like the wings of a stuffed and mounted bird. Just abaft the mast was a tent-like pavilion with faintly fluttering silk walls. This tent was between the guard and the mainland.

  The guard peered down at her, squinting. Zamira was wearing a thick, shapeless yellow dress that was almost a robe. She’d left her hat in her cabin, and pulled the bangles and ribbons out of her hair.

  “What do you want?”

  “My mistress has left me to tend to chores on her ship, while she takes her pleasure ashore,” said Zamira. “I have several heavy things to move, and I was wondering if I could beg for your help.”

  “You want me to come over there and be a mule for you?”

  “It would be so kind of you.”

  “And, ah, what are you prepared to do in exchange?”

  “Why, offer my heartfelt thanks to the gods for your goodness,” said Zamira, “or perhaps I could brew you some tea?”

  “You have a cabin over there?”

  “Yes, by the kindness of my mistress—”

  “A few minutes alone with you and that mouth of yours, and I’d be happy to move your shit for you.”

  “How…how inappropriate! My mistress will—”

  “Who’s your mistress, then?”

  “The Lady-in-Becoming Ezriane de la Mastron, of Nicora—”

  “Nicora? Ha! As if anyone would give a shit. Get lost.”

  The guard turned away, chuckling to himself.

  “Ah,” said Zamira. “So be it. I know when I’m not wanted.”

  She reached forward and moved the dun-colored tarpaulin on the bottom of the boat, just ahead of her feet. Beneath it was the heaviest crossbow in the Poison Orchid’s arsenal, carrying a barbed steel bolt the length of her upper arm.

  “And I simply do not care.”

  The guard was no doubt flustered by the sudden emergence, two seconds later, of a crossbow quarrel’s point from his sternum. Zamira wondered if he had time to speculate on the location of the rest of the bolt before he collapsed, the upper and lower halves of his spine no longer on speaking terms.

  Zamira pulled the yellow dress up and over her head, then tossed it into the back of the boat. Beneath it she wore her Elderglass vest, light tunic and breeches, boots, and a pair of slender leather bracers. Her sword-belt was at her waist, empty; she reached beneath her rowing bench, pulled out her sabers, and slid them into their scabbards. She rowed her little boat up against the yacht’s side and waved to Nasreen, who stood at the Orchid’s bow. Two crewfolk climbed over the brig’s side and dove into the water.

  The swimmers were alongside a minute later. Zamira helped them out of the water and sent them forward to man one of the sets of oars. She then pulled the pins to release the yacht’s anchor chains; no sense in wasting time hoisting it up. With her two sailors rowing and Zamira manning the rudder, it took just a few minutes to shift the yacht behind the Poison Orchid.

  Her crew began to come quietly down onto the yacht, armed and armored, looking completely incongruous as they squeezed themselves onto the fragile, scrollwork-covered vessel. Zamira counted forty-two before she felt the boat could take no more; crewfolk were crouched on deck, stuffed into the cabin, and manning all the oars. This would do; nearly two-thirds of her crew on shore to handle the main attack, and the other third on the Orchid to hit the vessels in the harbor.

  She waved at Utgar, who would be in charge of that last duty. He grinned and left the entry port to begin his final preparations.

  Zamira’s rowers brought the yacht out and around the Orchid; they turned to larboard just past her stern and pointed themselves straight toward the beach. Beyond that the buildings and tiered gardens of the rich little valley could be seen, laid out neat as food before a banquet.

  “Who brought the finishing touch?” Zamira asked.

  One of her crewmen unfolded a red silk banner and began securing it to the ensign halyard dangling from the yacht’s mast.

  “Right, then.” Zamira knelt at the bow of the yacht and gave her sword-belt a habitual adjustment. “Oars, with a will! Put us on that beach!”

  As the yacht surged forward across the temporarily calm waters of the bay, Zamira noticed a few small figures atop the nearby cliffs finally taking alarm. One or two of them ran toward the city; it looked as though they’d arrive about the same time Zamira expected to feel the sand of the beach beneath her boots.

  “That’s it,” she shouted. “Send up the red and let’s have some music!”

  As the scarlet banner shot up the halyard and caught the wind, every Orchid on the yacht let loose with a wild, wordless howl. Their yells echoed throughout the harbor, the disguised Orchids at the dock began seizing weapons, every visible person on the cliffs was now fleeing for the city, and Zamira’s sabers flashed in the sunlight as she drew them for action.

  It was the very definition of a beautiful morning.

  10

  “WAS IT absolutely necessary to sack Salon Corbeau so thoroughly?” said Stragos.

  Locke and Jean were seated in the archon’s office, surrounded by the faint shadowy flutterings of his thousand mechanical insects. It might just have been the shadows of the low-lit room, but it seemed to Locke that the lines on Stragos’ face had deepened in the days since he’d last seen him.

  “It was loads of fun. You have some particular attachment to the place?”

  “Not for my own sake, Lamora—it’s just that I had the clear impression that you were going to focus your activities on shipping in the vicinity of Tal Verrar.”

  “Salon Corbeau is generally considered to be in the vicinity of—”

  “Is it a ship, Lamora?”

  “There were ships in the harbor—”

  “I have the gods-damned numbers here, from my agents,” said Stragos. He stabbed at a piece of parchment with two fingers. “Two feluccas sunk. Forty-six yachts, pleasure barges, and smaller craft, burned or sunk. One hundred and eighteen slaves stolen. Nineteen of Countess Saljesca’s private guard slain, sixteen wounded. The vast majority of Salon Corbeau’s residences and guest villas burnt, the gardens all but destroyed. Her replica stadium gu
tted. Miscellaneous damages and losses exceeding ninety-five thousand solari at a first estimate. About the only things you missed were a few shops and Lady Saljesca’s residence itself!”

  Locke smirked. That had been by design; after Saljesca’s most important guests had fled to her fortresslike manor and barricaded themselves there with her remaining soldiers, attacking the manor would have been fruitless; the Orchids would have been slaughtered beneath the walls. But with their only opposition bottled up atop the valley, Drakasha’s crew had been free to run amok for more than an hour, looting and burning the valley at leisure. They’d lost only four crewfolk in the attack.

  As for the shops, well—Locke had specifically requested that the area surrounding the Baumondain family business be left alone.

  “We didn’t have time to hit everything,” he said. “And now that Salon Corbeau’s more or less ruined, some of those artisans might see fit to settle in Tal Verrar. Safer down here, with you and your military around, right?”

  “How can you spend your time executing a raid like that so efficiently,” said Stragos, “when your efforts toward my primary design are so perfunctory?”

  “I object—”

  “One attack by Orrin Ravelle—thank you for that, by the way—the night of the festa, against an Iridani ketch hired by a mad eccentric. Two more reported attacks, both in the vicinity of Salon Corbeau, one by Ravelle and one by the unknown “Captain de la Mastron.” Does Drakasha fear to take credit for her own work?”

  “We’re trying to create the impression of multiple pirates at work—”

  “What you are trying is my patience. You have stolen no major cargos, burned no ships at sea, nor even murdered any crewfolk. You content yourselves with money and portable valuables, you humiliate and frighten your prisoners, you do little more than vandalize their vessels, and then you vanish.”

  “We can’t weigh ourselves down with heavier cargo; we’ve got a lot of roaming to do.”

  “It seems to me that you have a fair bit of killing to do,” said Stragos. “The city is more bemused now than concerned; I continue to suffer in the public eye for the Ravelle affair, but few fear that this spree of…hooliganism truly bodes ill for Verrari trade.

  “Even the sack of Salon Corbeau has failed to arouse anxiety. Your recent attacks give the impression that you now fear to approach the city again; that these waters remain safe.” Stragos glared before continuing. “Were I purchasing goods from a tradesman, at the moment, I would not be well pleased with their quality.”

  “The difference, of course,” said Locke, “is that when I get fitted for, say, new jackets, I don’t poison my tailor until he has the length of the sleeves right—”

  “My life and fortunes are at stake,” said Stragos, rising from his chair. “And so are yours, dependent upon your success. I require butchers, not jesters. Take ships within sight of my city’s walls. Put their crews to the sword. Take their cargo or burn it—the time has come to be serious. That and that alone will stir this city to its foundations.

  “Do not return,” he said, emphasizing every word, “until you have spilled blood in these waters. Until you have become a scourge.”

  “So be it,” said Locke. “Another sip of our antidote—”

  “No.”

  “If you wish us to work with absolute confidence—”

  “You will keep,” said Stragos. “Like pickled eggs in a jar. It has been less than two weeks since your last dose. You are in no danger for six more.”

  “But—wait, Archon.” Jean interrupted him as he was turning to leave. “One thing more. When we came to this city on the night of the festa, we were attacked again.”

  Stragos’ eyes narrowed. “The same assassins as before?”

  “If you mean the same mystery, yes, we think so,” said Jean. “Some lurked in wait for us at the docks after we visited Requin. If they received a tip-off concerning our presence in the city, they moved damned fast.”

  “And the only place we went,” added Locke, “before visiting the Golden Steps was here.”

  “My people had nothing to do with it,” said Stragos. “Indeed, this is the first I have heard of the matter.”

  “We left four dead behind us,” said Jean.

  “Unremarkable. The constables found nearly thirty bodies throughout the city after the festa; there are always arguments and robberies to supply them.” Stragos sighed. “Obviously, this is nothing of my doing, and I have nothing more to tell you on the matter. I presume you’ll be returning straight to your ship when you leave.”

  “At speed,” said Locke. “Staying as far from the islands as we can.”

  “The complications of some previous malfeasance have obviously come back to ensnare you,” said Stragos. “Now leave. No more antidote and no more consultation. You extend your lease on fair health again only once you send panicked merchants to my gates, begging for help because death lurks beyond these harbors. Go now and do your job.”

  He whirled and left without a further word. A moment later a squad of Eyes marched in through the main door and waited expectantly.

  “Well, damn,” muttered Jean.

  11

  “WE’LL GET the bastard,” said Ezri as they lay together in her cabin that night. The Poison Orchid, now calling itself the Mercurial, was treading heavy seas about twenty miles southwest of Tal Verrar, and the two of them clung to one another as they rocked back and forth in the hammock.

  “With difficulty,” said Jean. “He won’t see us now until we do some serious work on his behalf…and if we do that, we might push things to the point that he no longer needs us. We’ll get a knife, rather than an antidote. Or…if it comes to that, he’ll get the knife—”

  “Jean, I don’t want to hear that,” she said. “Don’t talk about it.”

  “It’s got to be faced, love—”

  “I don’t believe it,” she said. “I don’t. There’s always a way to attack or a way to escape. That’s the way it is out here.” She rolled over on top of him and kissed him. “I told you not to give up, Jean Tannen, and the thing about me is I get my way.”

  “Gods,” whispered Jean, “how did I ever live before I met you?”

  “Sadly, poorly, miserably,” she said. “I make everything so much better. It’s why the gods put me here. Now quit moping and tell me something pleasant!”

  “Something pleasant?”

  “Yeah, slackwit, I’ve heard that other lovers sometimes tell one another pleasant things when they’re alone—”

  “Yes, but with you it’s sort of on pain of death, isn’t it?”

  “It could be. Let me find a saber—”

  “Ezri,” he said with sudden seriousness. “Look—when this is over, Stragos and all, Leocanto and I might be…very rich men. If our other business in Tal Verrar goes well.”

  “Not if,” she said. “When.”

  “All right,” he said. “When it does…you really could come with us. Leo and I spoke about it a bit. You don’t have to choose one life or another, Ezri. You can just sort of…go on leave for a bit. We all could.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We could get a yacht,” said Jean, “in Vel Virazzo, there’s this place—the private marina, where all the swells keep their boats and barges. They usually have a few for sale, if you’ve got a few hundred solari on hand, which we intend to. We have to go to Vel Virazzo anyway, to sort of…finish our business. We could have a boat fitted out in a couple of days, and then just…poke around a bit! Drift. Enjoy ourselves. Pretend to be useless gentlefolk for a while.”

  “And come back to all this later, you mean?”

  “Whenever you wanted,” said Jean. “Have it as you like. You always get your way, don’t you?”

  “Live on a yacht for a while with you and Leocanto,” she said. “No offense, Jean, you’re passable for a landsman, but by his own admission Leocanto couldn’t con a shoe across a puddle of piss—”

  “What do you think we’d be
bringing you along for, hmmm?”

  “Well, I would have imagined that this had something to do with it,” she said, moving her hands strategically to a more interesting location.

  “Ah,” he said, “and so it does, but you could sort of be honorary captain, too—”

  “Can I name the boat?”

  “As if you’d let anyone else do it!”

  “All right,” she whispered. “If that’s the plan, that’s the plan. We’ll do it.”

  “You really mean—”

  “Hell,” she said, “with just the swag we pulled from Salon Corbeau, everyone on this crew can stay drunk for months when we get back to the Ghostwinds. Zamira won’t miss me for a while.” They kissed. “Half a year.” They kissed again. “Year or two, maybe.”

  “Always a way to attack,” Jean mused between kisses, “always a way to escape.”

  “Of course,” she whispered. “Hold fast, and sooner or later you’ll always find what you’re after.”

  12

  JAFFRIM RODANOV paced the quarterdeck of the Dread Sovereign in the silvery-orange light of earliest morning. They were bound north by west with the wind on the starboard quarter, about forty miles southwest of Tal Verrar. The seas were running at five or six feet.

  Tal Verrar. Half a day’s sailing to the city they’d avoided like a colony of slipskinners these past seven years; to the home of a navy that could crush even his powerful Sovereign if roused to anger. There was no genuine freedom in these waters, only a vague illusion. Fat merchant ships he could never touch; a rich city he could never sack. Yet he could live with that. It was grand, provided only that the freedom and the plunder of the southern seas could remain.

  “Captain,” said Ydrena, appearing on deck with a chipped clay mug of her usual brandy-laced morning tea in one hand, “I don’t mean to ruin a fine new morning—”

  “You wouldn’t be my first if I needed my ass kissed more than I needed my ship sailed.”

  “A week out here without a lead, Captain.”

  “We’ve seen two dozen sails of merchants, luggers, and pleasure galleys just these past two days,” said Rodanov. “And we have yet to see a naval ensign. There’s still time to find her.”