The Gentleman Bastard Series 3-Book Bundle: The Lies of Locke Lamora, Red Seas Under Red Skies, The Republic of Thieves

by Scott Lynch

  “Mizzenmast,” bellowed Caldris, and Locke and Jean both fetched up short, breathing heavily.

  “Ship doesn’t bloody have one,” said Locke. “Just foremast and mainmast!”

  “Oh, clever you! You’ve undone my subtle ruse, Master Kosta. Get your bloody uniform and we’ll let you act the peacock for a few hours.”

  The three men worked together across the days to define a system of hand and verbal signals, with Locke and Jean making a few sensible adaptations from their existing private language.

  “Privacy on a ship at sea is about as real as fucking fairy piss,” Caldris grumbled one afternoon. “I might not be able to give you clear spoken instructions with gods-know-who watching and listening. We’ll work with lots of nudges and whispers. If you know something complicated is coming up, best thing to say is just—”

  “Let’s see if you know your business, Caldris!” Locke found that the Verrari naval uniform was a great aid when it came to conjuring an authoritative voice.

  “Right. That or something like it. And if one of the sailors cops technical and wants your opinion on something you don’t know …”

  “Come now, Imaginary Seaman, surely I don’t have to spell it out for you like a child?”

  “Right, good. Give me another one.”

  “Gods damn you, I know this ship’s lines like the back of my hand!” Locke looked down his nose at Caldris, which was only possible because his leather boots added an inch and a half to his height. “And I know what she’s capable of. Trust my judgment or feel free to start swimming.”

  “Yes. A fine job, Master Kosta!” The sailing master squinted at Locke and scratched his beard. “Where does Master Kosta go when you do that? What exactly is it you do for a living, Leocanto?”

  “I do this, I suppose. I’m a professional pretender. I … act.”

  “On the stage?”

  “Once upon a time. Jerome and I both. Now I suppose we make this ship our stage.”

  “Indeed you do.” Caldris moved to the wheel (which was actually a pair of wheels, joined by a mechanism below the deck, to allow more than one sailor to exert their strength against it in hard weather), evading a brief attack on his bare feet from the kitten. “Places!”

  Locke and Jean hurried to the quarterdeck to stand near him, ostensibly aloof and concentrating on their own tasks, while remaining close enough to pick up on a whisper or a prompting gesture.

  “Imagine us beating to windward with the breeze coming in across the larboard bow,” said Caldris. It was necessary to imagine, for in the enclosed little bay not the slightest breeze stirred. “The time has come for us to tack. Just sound off the steps. I need to know you’ve got them down.”

  Locke pictured the operation in his head. No square-rigged ship could sail straight into the wind. To move a desired direction against the breeze required sailing at something like a forty-five degree angle to it, and switching over at intervals to present different sides of the bow to the wind. It was in effect a series of zigzags, tack after tack, arduously clawing in a desired direction. Each changeover, from larboard tack to starboard tack or vice versa, was a delicate operation with many opportunities for disaster.

  “Master Caldris,” he bellowed, “we shall put the ship about. The wheel is yours.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “Master de Ferra!”

  Jean gave three short blasts on the whistle he wore, as Locke did, around his neck. “All hands! All hands ready to put the ship about!”

  “Master Caldris,” said Locke. “Neatness counts. Seize your wheel. Put your helm down.”

  Locke waited a few seconds for dramatic effect, then yelled, “Helm a-lee!”

  Caldris mimed hauling the wheel in the direction of the ship’s lee side, in this case the starboard, which would tilt the rudder in the opposite direction. Locke conjured a vivid mental picture of the sudden press of water against it, forcing the ship into a turn to larboard. They would be coming into the eye of the wind, feeling its full force; an error at this point could “lock them in irons,” stalling all progress, stealing power from rudder and sails alike. They would be helpless for minutes, or worse—an error like that in heavy weather could flip them, and ships were not acrobats.

  “Imaginary Sailors! Tacks and sheets!” Jean waved his arms and hollered his instructions to the invisible deckhands. “Smartly now, you slothful dogs!”

  “Master de Ferra,” called Locke, “that Imaginary Sailor is not minding his duty!”

  “I’ll fuckin’ kill you later, you cabbage-brained pig-rapist! Seize your rope and wait for my word!”

  “Master Caldris!” Locke whirled toward the sailing master, who was nonchalantly sipping from a leather skin of pinkwater. “Hard over!”

  “Aye, sir.” He belched and set the skin down on the deck at his feet. “By your word, hard over.”

  “Up mainsail,” cried Locke.

  “Bowlines off! Braces off!” Jean blew another blast on his whistle. “Yards around for the starboard tack!”

  In Locke’s mind, the ship’s bow was now tilting past the heart of the wind; the larboard bow would become their lee, and the wind would blow in across the starboard side of the ship. The yards would be rapidly rebraced for the sails to take advantage of the wind’s new aspect, and Caldris would be frantically reversing his wheel’s turn. The Red Messenger would need to stabilize her new course; if she was pushed too far to larboard, they might find themselves moving in the opposite of their intended direction, with the sails braced improperly to boot. They would be lucky to be merely embarrassed by such a fiasco.

  “Hard over,” he yelled again.

  “Aye sir,” cried Caldris. “Heard the captain fine the first time.”

  “Lines on! Braces on!” Jean blew his whistle yet again. “Haul off all, you fuckin’ maggots!”

  “We’re now on the starboard tack, Captain,” said Caldris. “Surprisingly, we didn’t lose her in stays and we’ll all live to see another hour.”

  “Aye, no bloody thanks to this useless cur of an Imaginary Sailor!” Locke mimed grabbing a man and forcing him to the deck. “What’s your gods-damned problem, you work-shirking little orlop worm?”

  “First mate de Ferra beats me cruelly,” cried Jean in a squeaky voice. “He is a monstrous bad fellow, who makes me wish I’d taken priest’s orders and never set foot aboard!”

  “Of course he does! It’s what I pay him for.” Locke mimed hefting a blade. “For your crimes, I swear you’ll die on this very deck, unless you can answer two bloody questions! First—where the hell is my nonimaginary crew? And second, why in the name of all the gods am I supposed to practice wearing this damned uniform?”

  He was startled out of his act by the sound of applause from behind him. He whirled to see Merrain standing just beside the entry port at the ship’s rail; she’d come up the ramp in absolute silence.

  “Oh, wonderful!” She smiled at the three men on deck, stooped down, and plucked up the kitten, who’d moved immediately to attack Merrain’s fine leather boots. “Very convincing. But your poor invisible sailor doesn’t have the answers you seek.”

  “Are you here to name someone who does?”

  “On the morrow,” she said, “the archon orders you to take the sails of one of his private boats. He wishes to see a demonstration of your skills before you receive your final orders for sea. He and I will be your passengers. If you can keep our heads above water, he’ll show you where your crew is. And why we’ve had you practicing with that uniform.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CASTING LOOSE

  1

  THERE WAS ONE GUARD PACING the dock at the base of the lonely island. His soft yellow lamp cast rippling light across the black water as Locke threw him a rope from within the little launch. Rather than tying them up, the guard thrust his lantern down toward Locke, Jean, and Caldris, and said, “This dock is strictly off … oh, gods. My apologies, sir.”

  Locke grinned, feeling the author
ity of the full Verrari captain’s uniform enfold him like nothing so much as a warm blanket. He grabbed a piling and heaved himself up onto the dock while the guard saluted him awkwardly with his lantern hand crossed over his chest.

  “Gods defend the archon of Tal Verrar,” said Locke. “Carry on. It’s your job to challenge strange boats at night, soldier.”

  While the soldier tied the launch to a piling, Locke reached down and helped Jean up. Moving gracefully in the now-familiar costume, Locke then stepped around behind the dock guard, unfurled a leather crimper’s hood from within his jacket, slammed it down over the soldier’s head, and cinched the drawstring tight.

  “Gods know there’s none stranger than ours that you’re ever likely to see.”

  Jean held the soldier by his arms while the drugs inside the hood did their job. He lacked the constitution of the last man Locke had tried to knock out with such a hood, and sagged after just a few seconds of muffled struggle. When Locke and Jean tied him firmly to the piling at the far corner of the dock and stuffed a rag in his mouth, he was sleeping peacefully.

  Caldris clambered out of the boat, picked up the guard’s lantern, and began pacing with it in his place.

  Locke stared up at the stone tower that was their objective; seven stories tall, its battlements were orange-lit by alchemical navigation beacons warning ships away. Ordinarily there would be guards up there as well, watching the waters and the dock, but the hand of Stragos was already at work. Nothing moved atop the tower.

  “Come on, then,” Locke whispered to Jean. “Let’s get inside and do some recruiting.”

  2

  “IT’S CALLED Windward Rock,” Stragos said. He pointed at the stone tower that jutted from the little island, perhaps a single arrow-flight from the line of hissing white surf that marked Tal Verrar’s outer barrier of glass reefs. They floated at anchor in seventy feet of water, a good mile west of the Silver Marina. The warm morning sun was just rising over the city behind them, making tiers of soft light from its layers of foggy haze.

  True to Merrain’s word, Stragos had arrived at dawn in a thirty-foot launch of polished black wood, with comfortable leather seats at the stern and gold-gilded scrollwork on every surface. Locke and Jean were given the sails under Caldris’ minimal supervision, while Merrain sat in the bow. Locke had wondered if she was ever comfortable anywhere else.

  They had sailed north, then rounded the Silver Marina and turned west, chasing the last blue shadow of the night sky on the far horizon.

  They rode on for a few minutes, until Merrain whistled for everyone’s attention and pointed to her left, across the starboard bow. A tall, dark structure could be seen rising above the waves in the distance. Orange lights glowed at its peak.

  Soon enough they had dropped anchor to regard the lonely tower. If Stragos had no praise for Locke and Jean’s handling of the vessel, neither did he offer any criticism.

  “Windward Rock,” said Jean. “I’ve heard of it. Some sort of fortress.”

  “A prison, Master de Ferra.”

  “Will we be visiting it this morning?”

  “No,” said Stragos. “You’ll be returning and landing soon enough. For now, I just wanted you to see it … and I wanted to tell you a little story. I have in my service a particularly unreliable captain, who has until now done a splendid job of concealing his shortcomings.”

  “Words cannot express how truly sorry I am to hear that,” said Locke.

  “He will betray me,” said Stragos. “His plans for months have been leading up to a grand and final betrayal. He will steal something of great value from me and turn it against me for all to see.”

  “You should have been watching him more closely,” Locke muttered.

  “I have been,” said Stragos. “And I am right now. The captain I speak of is you.”

  3

  WINDWARD ROCK had only one set of doors, iron-bound, eleven feet tall, locked and guarded from the inside. A small panel in the wall beside them slid open as Locke and Jean approached, and a head silhouetted by lamplight appeared behind it. The guardswoman’s voice was devoid of banter: “Who passes?”

  “An officer of archon and Council,” said Locke with ritual formality. “This man is my boatswain. These are my orders and papers.”

  He passed a set of documents rolled into a tight tube to the woman behind the door. She slid the panel closed over her watch-hole, and Locke and Jean waited in silence for several minutes, listening to the rushing passage of surf over the nearby reefs. Two moons were just coming up, gilding the southern horizon with silver, and the stars dusted the cloudless sky like confectioners’ sugar thrown against a black canvas.

  Finally, there was a metallic clatter, and the heavy doors swung outward on creaking hinges. The guardswoman stepped out to meet them, saluting, but not returning Locke’s papers.

  “My apologies for the delay, Captain Ravelle. Welcome to Windward Rock.”

  Locke and Jean followed her into the tower’s entrance hall, which was divided into two halves by a wall of black iron bars running from floor to ceiling across its breadth. On the far side of these bars, a man behind a wooden desk had control of whatever mechanism closed the gates—they clattered shut behind Locke and Jean after a few seconds.

  The man, like the woman, wore the archon’s blue under ribbed black leather armor: bracers, vest, and neck-guard. He was clean-shaven and handsome, and he waited behind the bars as the female guard approached to pass him Locke’s papers.

  “Captain Orrin Ravelle,” she said. “And boatswain. Here with orders from the archon.”

  The man studied Locke’s papers at length before nodding and passing them back through the bars. “Of course. Good evening, Captain Ravelle. This man is your boatswain, Jerome Valora?”

  “Yes, Lieutenant.”

  “You’re to view the prisoners in the second vault? Anyone in particular?”

  “Just a general viewing, Lieutenant.”

  “As you will.” The man slid a key from around his neck, opened the only gate set into the wall of iron bars, and stepped out toward them smiling. “We’re pleased to render any aid the Protector requires, sir.”

  “I very much doubt that,” said Locke, letting a stiletto slip into his left hand. He reached out and gave the female guard a slash behind her right ear, across the unprotected skin between her leather neck-guard and her tightly coifed hair. She cried out, whirled, and had her blackened-steel saber out of its scabbard in an instant.

  Jean was tackling the male guard before her blade was even out; the man uttered a surprised choking noise as Jean slammed him against the bars and gave him a sharp chop to the neck with the edge of his right hand. The leather armor robbed the blow of its lethal possibilities without dulling the shock of impact. Gasping, the guard was easily pinned from behind by Jean, who immobilized his arms and held him in a grip like iron.

  Locke darted backward out of the female guard’s reach as she slashed with her blade. Her first attack was swift and nearly accurate. Her second was a bit slower, and Locke had no trouble avoiding it. She readied a third swing and misstepped, tripping over her own feet. Her mouth hung open in confusion.

  “You … fucker …,” she muttered. “Poi … poi … son.”

  Locke winced as she toppled facefirst to the stone floor; he’d meant to catch her, but the stuff on the blade was faster than he’d expected.

  “You bastard,” coughed the lieutenant, straining uselessly in Jean’s hold, “you killed her!”

  “Of course I didn’t kill her, you twit. Honestly, you people … pull a blade anywhere around here and everyone assumes straightaway that you’ve killed someone.” Locke stepped up before the guard and showed him the stiletto. “Stuff on the edge is called witfrost. You have a good hard sleep all night, wake up around noon. At which time you’ll feel like hell. Apologies. So do you want it in the neck or in the palm of your hand?”

  “You … you gods-damned traitor!”

  “Neck it is.”
Locke gave the man his own shallow cut just behind his left ear and barely counted to eight before he was hanging in Jean’s arms, limper than wet silk. Jean set the lieutenant down gently and plucked a small ring of iron keys from his belt.

  “Right,” said Locke. “Let’s pay a visit to the second vault.”

  4

  “RAVELLE DIDN’T exist until a month ago,” said Stragos. “Not until I had you to build the lie around. A dozen of my most trusted men and women will swear after the fact that he was real; that they shared assignments and meals with him, that they spoke of duties and trifles in his company.

  “My finnickers have prepared orders, duty rosters, pay vouchers, and other documents, and seeded them throughout my archives. Men using the name of Ravelle have rented rooms, purchased goods, ordered tailored uniforms delivered to the Sword Marina. By the time I’m dealing with the consequences of your betrayal, he’ll seem real in fact and memory.”

  “Consequences?” asked Locke.

  “Ravelle is going to betray me just as Captain Bonaire betrayed me when she took my Basilisk out of the harbor seven years ago and raised a red banner. It’s going to happen again … twice to the same archon. I will be ridiculed in some quarters, for a time. Temporary loss for long-term gain.” He winced. “Have you not considered the public reaction to what I’m arranging, Master Kosta? I certainly have.”

  “Gods, Maxilan,” said Locke, toying absently with a knot on one of the lines bracing the vessel’s relatively small mainsail. “Trapped out at sea, feigning mastery in a trade for which I’m barely competent, fighting for my life with your fucking poison in my veins, I shall endeavor to keep you in my prayers for the sake of your hardship.”