by Scott Lynch
“Valora,” said Scholar Treganne, hobbling toward them. “Valora don’t, don’t touch—”
Jean pounded the deck and screamed. Treganne knelt beside what was left of Ezri, pulling a dagger from her belt sheath. Locke was startled to see tears trailing down her cheeks.
“Valora,” she said. “Take this. She’s dead already. She needs you, for the gods’ sake.”
“No,” sobbed Jean. “No, no, no—”
“Valora, look at her, gods damn it. She is beyond all help. Every second is an hour to her and she is praying for this knife.”
Jean snatched the knife from Treganne’s hand, wiped a tunic sleeve across his eyes, and shuddered. Gasping deep breaths despite the terrible smell of burning that lingered in the air, he moved the knife toward her, jerking in time with his sobs like a man with palsy. Treganne placed her hands over his to steady them, and Locke closed his eyes.
Then it was over.
“I’m sorry,” said Treganne. “Forgive me, Valora. I didn’t know—I didn’t know what that thing was, what Utgar had. Forgive me.”
Jean said nothing. Locke opened his eyes again, and saw Jean rising as though in a trance, his sobs all but stifled, the dagger still held loosely in his hand. He moved, as though he saw nothing of the battle still raging behind him, across the deck toward Utgar.
17
TEN MORE Orchids fell at the bow saving them, following Zamira’s orders, shoving with all their might against the Sovereign with spears and boat hooks and halberds. Shoving to get her bowsprit and rigging clear of the Orchid, while Rodanov’s survivors at the bow fought like demons to escape. But they did it, with Mumchance’s help, and the two battered ships tore apart at last.
“All hands,” shouted Zamira, dazed by the effort it suddenly required. “All hands! Tacks and braces! Put us west before the wind! Fire party to main hold! Get the wounded aft to Treganne!” Assuming Treganne was alive, assuming…much. Sorrow later. More hardship now.
Rodanov hadn’t joined the final fight to board the Orchid; Zamira had last seen him running aft, fighting his way through the blaze and headed for the wheel. Whether in a last hopeless effort to save his ship or destroy hers, he’d failed.
18
“HELP,” UTGAR whispered. “Help. Get it out. I can’t reach it.”
His movements were faint, and his eyes were going glassy. Jean knelt beside him, stared at him, and then brought the dagger down overhand into his back. Utgar took a shocked breath; Jean brought the knife down again and again while Locke watched; until Utgar was most certainly dead, until his back was covered in wounds, until Locke finally reached over and grabbed him by the wrist.
“Jean—”
“It doesn’t help,” said Jean, in a disbelieving voice. “Gods, it doesn’t help.”
“I know,” said Locke. “I know.”
“Why didn’t you stop her?” Jean launched himself at Locke, pinning him to the deck, one hand around his throat. Locke gagged and fought back, and it did him about as much good as he expected. “Why didn’t you stop her?”
“I tried,” said Locke. “She pushed you into me. She knew what we’d do, Jean. She knew. Please—”
Jean released him and sat back as quickly as he had attacked. He looked down at his hands and shook his head. “Oh, gods, forgive me. Forgive me, Locke.”
“Always,” said Locke. “Jean, I am so, so sorry—I wouldn’t, I wouldn’t have had it happen for the world. For the world, do you hear me?”
“I do,” he said quietly. He buried his face in his hands and said nothing more.
To the southeast, the fire aboard the Dread Sovereign turned the sea red; it roared up the masts and sails, rained charred canvas like volcanic ash upon the waves, devoured the hull, and at last subsided into a billowing mountain of smoke and steam as the ship’s charred hulk slipped beneath the waters.
“Ravelle,” said Drakasha, placing a hand on Locke’s shoulder and interrupting his reverie, “if you can help, I—”
“I’m fine,” said Locke, stumbling to his feet. “I can help. Just maybe…leave Jerome—”
“Yes,” she said. “Ravelle, we need—”
“Zamira, enough. Enough Ravelle this, Kosta that. Around the crew, sure. But my friends call me Locke.”
“Locke,” she said.
“Locke Lamora. Don’t, ah—ahhh, who the hell would you tell anyway?” He reached up to set a hand on hers, and in a moment they had drawn one another into a hug. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Ezri, Nasreen, Malakasti, Gwillem—”
“Gwillem?”
“Yeah, he—one of Rodanov’s archers, I’m sorry.”
“Gods,” she said. “Gwillem was with the Orchid when I stole her. Last of the original crew. Ra—Locke. Mum has the wheel and we’re safe for the moment. I need…I need to go down and see my children. And I need…I need you to look after Ezri. They can’t see her like that.”
“I’ll take care of it,” he said. “Look, go down. I’ll take care of things on deck. We’ll get the rest of the wounded back to Treganne. We’ll get all the bodies covered up.”
“Very good,” said Zamira quietly. “You have the deck, Master Lamora. I’ll return shortly.”
I have the deck, thought Locke, staring around at the shambles left by the battle: swaying rigging, damaged shrouds, splintered railings, arrows embedded damn near everywhere. Bodies crowded every corner of the waist and forecastle; survivors moved through them like ghosts, many of them hobbling on spears and bows for makeshift canes.
Gods. So this is what a command is. Staring consequences in the eye and pretending not to flinch.
“Jean,” he whispered, crouching over the bigger man where he sat on the deck. “Jean, stay here. Stay as long as you like. I’ll be close. I just need to take care of things, all right?”
Jean nodded, faintly.
“Right,” said Locke, glancing around again, this time looking for the least injured. “Konar,” he yelled. “Big Konar! Get a pump rigged, the first one you can find that works. Run a hose to this cargo hatch and give the main deck hold a good soak. We can’t have anything smoldering down there. Oscarl! Come here! Get me sail canvas and knives. We’ve got to do something about all these…all these people.”
All the crewfolk dead upon the deck. We’ve got to do something about them here, Locke thought. And then I’m going to do something about them in Tal Verrar. Once and for all.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
SETTLING ACCOUNTS
1
“CROOKED WARDEN, Silent Thirteenth, your servant calls. Place your eyes upon the passing of this woman, Ezri Delmastro, Iono’s servant and yours. Beloved of a man who is beloved by you.” Locke’s voice broke, and he struggled for self-control. “Beloved of a man who is my brother. We…we grudge you this one, Lord, and I don’t mind saying so.”
Thirty-eight left standing; fifty they’d put over the side, and the rest had been lost during the battle. Locke and Zamira shared the funeral duties. Locke’s recitations had grown more numb with each one, but now, at this last ritual of the night, he found himself cursing the day he’d been chosen as a priest of the Crooked Warden. His presumed thirteenth birthday, under the Orphan’s Moon. What power and what magic it had seemed back then. The power and the magic to give funeral orations. He scowled, buried his cynical thoughts for Ezri’s sake, and continued.
“This is the woman who saved us all. This is the woman who beat Jaffrim Rodanov. We deliver her, body and spirit, to the realm of your brother Iono, mighty lord of the sea. Lend her aid. Carry her soul to She who weighs us all. This we pray with hopeful hearts.”
Jean knelt over the canvas shroud, and on it he placed a lock of dark brown hair. “My flesh,” he whispered. He pricked his finger with a dagger, and let a red drop fall. “My blood.” He leaned down to the unmoving head beneath the canvas, and left a lingering kiss. “My breath, and my love.”
“These things bind your promise,” said Locke.
“My promise,” said Jean, rising t
o his feet. “A death-offering, Ezri. Gods help me to make it worthy. I don’t know if I can, but gods help me.”
Zamira, standing nearby, stepped up to take one side of the wooden plank holding Ezri’s canvas-wrapped body. Locke took the other; Jean, as he’d warned Locke before the ceremony, was unable to help. He wrung his hands and looked away. In a moment it was over—Locke and Zamira tipped the plank, and the sailcloth shroud slid out the entry port, into the dark waves below. It was an hour past sunset, and at long last they were truly done.
The wordless circle of tired, mostly wounded crewfolk began to disperse, back to Treganne’s fussing or their bare-bones watches. Rask had replaced Ezri, Nasreen, and Utgar alike for the time being; with his head swaddled in a thick linen bandage, he began grabbing the more able-bodied survivors and pointing out chores for their attention.
“And now?” asked Locke.
“Now we limp, with the wind mostly against us, back to Tal Verrar.” Zamira’s voice was tired, but her gaze was level. “We had an understanding, before this. I’ve lost more than I bargained for, friends and crew both. We lack the strength to take so much as a fishing vessel now, so I’m afraid what remains is up to you.”
“As we promised,” said Locke. “Stragos. Yeah. Get us there, and I’ll…think of something.”
“You won’t have to,” said Jean. “Just put in and send me off.” He looked down at his feet. “Then leave.”
“No,” said Locke. “I won’t just stay here while—”
“Only takes one for what I’ve got in mind.”
“You just promised a death-offering—”
“She gets it. Even if it’s me, she gets it.”
“You think Stragos won’t be suspicious to see just one of us?”
“I’ll tell him you’re dead. Tell him we had a fight at sea; that part’s honest enough. He’ll see me then.”
“I won’t let you go alone.”
“And I won’t let you come with. What do you think you can do, fight me?”
“Shut up, the pair of you,” said Zamira. “Gods. Just this morning, Jerome, your friend here tried to convince me to let him do exactly what you’re planning right now.”
“What?” Jean glared at Locke and ground his teeth together. “You miserable little sneak, how could you—”
“What? How dare I contemplate what you were going to do to me? You self-righteous strutting cock, I’ll—”
“What?” shouted Jean.
“—I’ll throw myself at you, and you’ll beat the shit out of me,” said Locke. “And then you’ll feel awful! How about that, huh?”
“I already feel awful,” said Jean. “Gods, why can’t you just let me do this? Why can’t you give me this much? At least you’ll be alive; you can try to find another alchemist, another poisoner. It’s a better chance than I’ll have.”
“Like hell,” said Locke. “That’s not how we work, and if you wanted it otherwise, you should have left me bleeding to death in Camorr. I seem to recall being pretty set on it at the time.”
“Yeah, but—”
“It’s different when it’s you, isn’t it?”
“I—”
“Gentlemen,” said Zamira, “or whatever you are. All other considerations aside, I gave my little boat to Basryn this afternoon so the bastard could die on the waves instead of on my ship. You’ll have a hell of a time getting one of the other boats in to Tal Verrar by yourself, Jerome. Unless you propose to fly, for I’m not taking the Orchid more than a bowshot past the breakwater reefs.”
“I’ll swim if I bloody well have to—”
“Don’t be stupid in your anger, Jerome.” Drakasha grabbed him by the shoulders. “Be cold. Cold’s the only thing that’s going to work, if you’re going to give me anything back for what’s been done to my crew. For my first mate.”
“Shit,” Jean muttered.
“Together,” said Locke. “You didn’t leave me in Camorr, or Vel Virazzo. The hell if I’ll leave you here.”
Jean scowled, grabbed the rail, and stared down at the water. “It’s a damn shame,” he said at last. “All that money at the Sinspire. Pity we’ll never get it out. Or the other things.”
Locke grinned, recognizing the abrupt change of subject as Jean’s way of salving his pride as he gave in.
“Sinspire?” said Zamira.
“We’ve left a few parts of our story untold, Zamira. Forgive us. Sometimes these schemes get a bit heavy to haul around. We, ah, have a few thousand solari on the books at the Sinspire. Hell, I’d let you have my share if there were any way to get it, but the point is moot.”
“If only we’d found someone in the city to hold some of it for us,” said Jean.
“No use wailing over spilled beer,” said Locke. “I doubt we cultivated a single friend in Tal Verrar that we weren’t hiring or tipping. Sure could use a fucking friend now.” He joined Jean at the rail and pretended to be as absorbed in the sea as the bigger man did, but all he could think of were shrouded bodies splashing into the water.
Bodies falling, just as he and Jean had planned to use ropes, to fall safely out of—
“Wait a gods-damned minute,” said Locke. “A friend. A friend. That’s what we fucking need. We’ve spun Stragos and Requin like plates. Who haven’t we even bothered to deal with in the past two years? Who have we been ignoring?”
“The temples?”
“Good guess, but no—who’s got a direct stake in this bloody mess?”
“The Priori?”
“The Priori,” said Locke. “Those fat, secretive, conniving bastards.” Locke drummed his fingers against the rail, trying to push his sorrow out of his thoughts and will a dozen loose, improbable plans into one coherent scheme. “Think. Who’d we game with? Who’d we see at the Sinspire?”
“Ulena Pascalis.”
“No. She just barely got her seat at the table.”
“De Morella—”
“No. Gods, nobody takes him seriously. Who could move the Priori to do something absolutely rash? Who’s been around long enough to either command respect or pull strings to enforce it? Inner Seven is what we need. The hell with everyone else.”
Conjuring on the political realities of the Priori was akin to divination by chicken entrails, thought Locke. There were three tiers of seven in the merchant councils; the purpose of every seat on the lower two was public knowledge. Only the names of the Inner Seven were known—what hierarchy they held, what duties they performed was a mystery to outsiders.
“Cordo,” said Jean.
“Old Cordo, or Lyonin?”
“Both. Either. Marius is Inner Seven; Lyonin’s on his way up. And Marius is older than Perelandro’s balls. If anyone could move the Priori, presumably as part of some insane thing you’re dreaming up—”
“It’s only half-insane.”
“I know that fucking look on your face! I’m sure either Cordo’s the one you want; pity we’ve never met the bastards.” Jean stared at Locke with a wary expression. “You do have that look on your face. What do you mean to do?”
“I mean…what if I mean to have it all? Why are we plotting suicide as a first option? Why don’t we at least try first? Get to Requin. Pull the job. Get to Stragos. Squeeze an answer or an antidote out of him. Then give it to him, one way or another.” Locke mimed shoving a dagger into an invisible archon of Tal Verrar. It was so satisfying he mimed it again.
“How the hell do we do this?”
“That’s a grand question,” said Locke. “The best question you’ve ever asked. I know we need some things. First, the way it’s been lately, every person in Tal Verrar is likely to be waiting for us at the docks with crossbows and torches. We need better disguises. Shoddiest priesthood of the twelve?”
“Callo Androno,” said Jean.
“Begging His forgiveness, you got it,” said Locke.
Callo Androno; Eyes on the Crossroads; god of travel, languages, and lore. His itinerant priests as well as his settled scholars disdained
finery, taking pride in the roughness of their garments.
“Zamira,” said Locke, “if there’s anyone on board who can still push a needle and thread, we need two robes. Make them from sailcloth, spare clothes, anything. I hate to say it, but there’s got to be a lot of spare clothing lying around now.”
“The survivors will dice for the goods, and I’ll share out the coin among them,” she said. “But I can claim a few things first.”
“And we need something blue,” said Locke. “The blue Androni headbands. As long as we wear those, we’re holy men, not just ill-dressed vagrants.”
“Ezri’s blue tunic,” said Jean. “It’s…it’d be in her cabin, where she left it. It’s a bit faded, but—”
“Perfect,” said Locke. “Now, Zamira, when we came back from our first visit to Tal Verrar with this ship, I gave you a letter for safekeeeping. It has Requin’s seal on it. Jerome, I need you to finesse that thing off like Chains showed us. You’re better at it than me and it has to be good.”
“I suppose I can try. I’m not sure…how good I can be at anything right now.”
“I need your best. I need you to do it. For me. And for her.”
“Where do you want the seal moved?”
“Clean parchment. Paper. Anything. Do you have one sheet, Zamira?”
“A full sheet? I don’t think Paolo and Cosetta have left us any. But several of them are only partially scribbled on; I may be able to cut one in half.”
“Do it. Jerome, you’ll find some of the tools you need in my old sea chest, in Zamira’s cabin. Can he use it, and some lanterns, Captain?”
“Paolo and Cosetta refuse to come out of the rope locker,” said Zamira. “They’re too upset. I’ve brought bed things and alchemical lights down for them. The cabin is at your disposal.”
“You’ll need your cards, too,” said Jean. “Or so I presume.”
“Hell yes, I mean to use the cards. I’ll need them, plus the best set of gear we can scrape together. Daggers. Short lengths of cord, preferably demi-silk. Coin, Zamira—tight little purses of fifty or sixty solari in case we have to buy our way past a problem. And some coshes. If you don’t have any, there’s sand and sail canvas—”