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

by Scott Lynch

  “What? Gods damn it, Ravelle—”

  “Captain, you’re being unfair. I didn’t ask you to take those cards out and play with them. Nor did I spill liquor on them.”

  “You’re right,” said Drakasha with a sigh. She looked tired, Locke thought. The faint frown lines around her mouth looked as though they’d had a long recent workout. “Gather these up and throw them overboard.”

  “Captain, please. Please.” Locke held his hands out toward her. “Not only are they expensive, they’d be … damned impossible to duplicate. It’d take months. Let me just roll them back up in oilcloth and put them in the chest. Please think of them as part of my papers.”

  “What do you use them for?”

  “They’re just part of my little bag of tricks,” he said. “All I have left of it, really. One last, important little trick. I swear to you, they’re absolutely no threat to you and your ship.… You have to spill booze on them, and even then they’re just an annoyance. Look, if you save them for me, and find me some knives with scalpel edges, I’ll devote all my time to getting that shit off your table. Prying from the sides. Even if it takes all week. Please.”

  As it turned out, it took him ten hours, scraping away with infinite care atop the forecastle, as though he were performing surgery. He worked without rest, first by sunlight and then by the glow of multiple lanterns, until the devilishly hard stuff had been scraped off with nothing but a ghost upon the lacquer to show for it.

  When he finally claimed his minuscule sleeping space, he knew his hands and forearms would ache well into the next day.

  It was worth it, and had been worth every minute of work, to preserve the existence of that deck of cards.

  4

  ON THE twentieth, Drakasha gave up on the easterly course and put them west by north with the wind on the starboard beam. The weather held; they cooked by day and sweated by night, and the ship sailed beneath streams of flit-wraiths that hung over the water like arches of ghostly green light.

  On the twenty-first, as the promise of dawn was just graying the eastern sky, they had their chance to prove themselves.

  Locke was knocked out of a too-short sleep by an elbow to the ribs. He awoke to confusion; the men of the scrub watch were shifting, stumbling, and muttering all around him.

  “Sail ho,” said Jean.

  “Heard it from the masthead just a minute ago,” said someone near the door. “Two points off the starboard quarter. That’s well east and a little north of us, hull down.”

  “That’s good,” said Jabril, yawning. “The dawn glimpse.”

  “Dawn?” It still seemed dark, and Locke rubbed his sleep-blurred eyes. “Dawn already? Since I no longer have to pretend to know what the hell I’m doing, what’s a dawn glimpse?”

  “Sun’s coming up over the horizon, see?” Jabril seemed to relish the chance to lecture Locke. “Over in the east. We’re still in shadow over here, to the west a’ them. Hard to see us, but we got a good eye on them with that faint light behind their masts, savvy?”

  “Right,” said Locke. “Seems like a good thing.”

  “We’re for her,” said Aspel. “We’ll move in and take her. This ship is loaded with crew, and Drakasha’s a bloody-handed bitch.”

  “It’s a fight for us,” said Streva. “We’ll go first.”

  “Aye, and prove ourselves,” said Aspel. “Prove ourselves and be quits with this scrub watch shit.”

  “Don’t be tying silver ribbons on your cock just yet,” said Jabril. “We don’t know her heading, or what speed she makes, or what her best point of sailing is. She might be a ship of war. Might even be part of a squadron.”

  “Be fucked, Jabbi,” said someone without real malice. “Don’t you want to be gone from scrub watch?”

  “Hey, time comes to board her, I’ll row the boat naked and attack the bastards with my good fuckin’ looks. Just wait and see if she’s prey, is all I’m sayin’.”

  There was noise and commotion on deck; orders were shouted. The men at the entrance strained to hear and see everything.

  “Delmastro’s sending people up the lines,” said one of them. “Looks like we’re going to come north a few points. They’re doing it quick-like.”

  “Nothing’s more suspicious than a sudden change of sail, if they see us,” said Jabril. “She wants us to be nearer their course before we’re spotted, so it looks natural.”

  Minutes passed; Locke blinked and settled back down against his familiar bulkhead. If action wasn’t imminent, there was always time for a few more minutes of sleep. From the groaning and shuffling around him, he wasn’t alone in that opinion.

  He awoke a few minutes later—the sky seen through the ventilation hatch was lighter gray—to Lieutenant Delmastro’s voice coming from the undercastle entrance.

  “… where you are for now. Keep quiet and out of sight. It’s about five minutes to the switchover from Red to Blue, but we’re suspending regular watches for action. We’ll be sending Red down in bits and pieces, and half of Blue will come up to replace them. We want to look like a merchant brig, not a prowler with a heavy crew.”

  Locke craned his neck to look out over the shadowy shapes around him. Just past Delmastro, in the predawn murk, he could see crewfolk at the waist wrestling several large barrels toward the ship’s larboard rail.

  “Smoke barrels on deck,” called a woman.

  “No open flames on deck,” shouted Ezri. “No smoking. Alchemical lights only. Pass the word.”

  Minutes passed, and the light of dawn grew steadily. Locke nonetheless found his eyelids creeping back downward. He sighed relaxed, and—

  “On deck there,” came a shout from the foremast head. “Send to the captain she’s got three masts, and she’s northwest by west. Topsails.”

  “Aye, three masts, northwest by west, topsails,” shouted Ezri. “How does she bear?”

  “Broad on the starboard beam, aft a point maybe.”

  “Keep sharp. Is she still hull down?”

  “Aye.”

  “The moment she lifts her skirts over that horizon, you peek and tell us what’s under them.” Ezri returned to the undercastle and pounded loudly on the bulkhead beside the entrance. “Scrub watch, rouse up. Stretch your legs and use the craplines, then get back under here. Be quick. We’ll be fighting or running soon enough. Best to have your innards in good order.”

  It was less like moving with a crowd than being squeezed from a tube. Locke found himself pushed onto deck, and he curled his back and stretched. Jean did likewise, then stepped up beside Delmastro. Locke raised an eyebrow; the little lieutenant seemed to tolerate Jean’s conversation to the same extent that she disdained his. So long as one of them was getting information from her, he supposed.

  “Do you really think we’ll be running?” asked Jean.

  “I’d prefer not.” Delmastro squinted over the rail, but even from Locke’s perspective the new ship couldn’t be seen on deck just yet.

  “You know,” said Jean, “it’s to be expected that you won’t see anything from down there. You should let me put you on my shoulders.”

  “A short joke,” said Delmastro. “How remarkably original. I’ve never heard the like in all my days. I’ll have you know I’m the tallest of all my sisters.”

  “Sisters,” said Jean. “Interesting. A bit of your past for free?”

  “Shit,” she said, scowling. “Leave me alone, Valora. It’s going to be a busy morning.”

  Men were returning from the craplines. Now that the press had lessened, Locke climbed the stairs and made his way forward to do his own business. He had sufficient unpleasant experience by now to elbow his way to the weather side—damned unfortunate things could happen to those on the lee craplines in any kind of wind—of the little wooden brace, which crossed the bowsprit just a yard or two out from the forepeak. It had ratlines hanging beneath it like a miniature yardarm, and against these Locke braced his feet while he undid his breeches. Waves pounded white against the
bow, and spray rose to splash the backs of his legs.

  “Gods,” he said, “to think that pissing could be such an adventure.”

  “On deck, there,” came the cry from the foremast a moment later. “She’s a flute, she is. Round and fat. Holding course and sail as before.”

  “What colors?”

  “None to be seen, Lieutenant.”

  A flute. Locke recognized the term—a round-sterned merchantman with a homely curved bow. Handy for cargo, but a brig like the Orchid could dance around it at will. No pirate or military expedition would make use of such a vessel. As soon as they could draw her in, it seemed they’d have their fight.

  “Ha,” he muttered, “and here I am, caught with my breeches down.”

  5

  THE SUN rose molten behind their target, framing the low black shape in a half-circle of crimson. Locke was on his knees at the starboard rail of the forecastle, trying to stay unobtrusive. He squinted and put a hand over his eyes to cut the glare. The eastern sky was a bonfire aura of pink and red; the sea was like liquid ruby spreading in a stain from the climbing sun.

  A dirty black smear of smoke rose from the lee side of the Poison Orchid’s waist, a few yards wide, an ominous intrusion into the clean dawn air. Lieutenant Delmastro was tending the smoke barrels herself. The Orchid was making way under topsails with her main and forecourses furled; conveniently, it was both a logical plan of sail for this breeze and the first precaution they would have taken if the ship were really on fire.

  “Come on, you miserable twits,” said Jean, who was seated beside him. “Glance left, for Perelandro’s sake.”

  “Maybe they do see us,” said Locke. “Maybe they just don’t give a damn.”

  “They haven’t changed a sail,” said Jean, “or we would’ve heard about it from the lookouts. They must be the most incurious, myopic, dim-witted buggers that ever set canvas to mast.”

  “On deck there!” The foremast lookout sounded excited. “Send to the captain she’s turning to larboard!”

  “How far?” Delmastro stepped away from her smoke barrels. “Is she coming about to head right for us?”

  “No, she’s come about three points around.”

  “They want to have a closer look,” said Jean, “but they’re not hopping into the hammock with us just yet.”

  There was a shout from the quarterdeck, and a moment later Delmastro blew her whistle three times.

  “Scrub watch! Scrub watch to the quarterdeck!”

  They hurried aft, past crewfolk removing well-oiled bows from canvas covers and stringing them. As Delmastro had promised, about half the usual watch was on deck; those involved in preparing weapons were crouched down or hiding behind the masts and the chicken coops. Drakasha was waiting for them at the quarterdeck rail, and she started speaking the moment they arrived.

  “They still have time and room enough to put about. It’s a flute, and I doubt they could run from us forever in any weather, but they could make us work for the catch. My guess is six or seven hours, but who wants to be bored for that long? We’ll pose as a charter brig on fire and see if we can’t entice them to do the sociable thing.

  “I offered a chance to prove yourselves, so you’re the teeth of the trap. You’ll fight first. Good on you if you come back. If you don’t want to fight, get under the forecastle and stay scrub watch until we’re quits with you.

  “As for me, I woke up hungry this morning. I mean to have that fat little prize. Who among you would fight for a place on my ship?”

  Locke and Jean thrust their arms into the air, along with everyone nearby. Locke glanced quickly around and saw that nobody seemed to be declining their chance.

  “Good,” said Drakasha. “We’ve three boats, seating about thirty. You’ll have them. Your task will be to look innocent at first; stay near the Orchid. At the signal, you’ll dash out and attack from the south.”

  “Captain,” said Jabril, “what if we can’t take her ourselves?”

  “If numbers or circumstances are against you, hold fast to whatever scrap of deck you can. I’ll bring the Orchid alongside and grapple to her. Nothing that ship carries can stand against a hundred fresh boarders.”

  A fine comfort that’ll be, to those of us already dead or dying, Locke thought. The reality of what they were about to do had only just come home to him, and he felt an anxious fluttering in his stomach.

  “Captain!” One of the lookouts was hailing from the maintop. “She’s sent up Talishani colors!”

  “She might be lying,” muttered Jabril. “Decent bluff. If you’re going to fly a false flag, Talisham’s got a bit of a navy. And nobody’s at war with ’em right now.”

  “Not too clever, though,” said Jean. “If she had escorts in sight, why not fly it at all times? Only someone with cause to be worried hides their colors.”

  “Aye. Them and pirates.” Jabril grinned.

  Captain Drakasha shouted across the crowd. “Del! Have one of your smoke barrels sent over to the starboard rail. Just forward of the quarterdeck stairs.”

  “You want smoke from the weather rail, Captain?”

  “A good smudge right across the quarterdeck,” said Drakasha. “If they want to chat with signal flags, we need an excuse to keep mum.”

  The lanky sailing master, holding the wheel a few feet behind Drakasha, cleared his throat loudly. She smiled, then seemed to have an idea. Turning to a sailor on her left, she said, “Get three signal pennants from the flag chest and let them fly from the stern. Yellow over yellow over yellow.”

  “All souls in peril,” said Jean. “That’s a come-hither look, and no fooling.”

  “I thought it was just a distress signal,” said Locke.

  “Should’ve read the book more closely. Three yellow pennants says we’re so hard up that we’ll legally grant them salvage rights to anything we don’t carry on our persons. They save it, they own it.”

  Delmastro and her crew had moved a smoke barrel into position at the starboard rail, and lit it with a bit of twist-match. Gray tendrils of smoke began to snake up and over the quarterdeck, chasing the darker black cloud rising from the lee side. At the taffrail, a pair of sailors was sending up three fluttering yellow pennants.

  “Extra lookouts aloft and at the rails to give Mumchance a hand,” called Drakasha. “Archers up one at a time. Keep your weapons down in the tops; stay out of sight if you can, and play meek until I give the signal.”

  “Captain!” The mainmast lookouts were shouting down once more. “She’s turned to cut our path, and she’s adding sail!”

  “Funny how tender-hearted they get as soon as they see that signal,” said Drakasha. “Utgar!”

  A fairly young Vadran, the skin of his shaved head red-baked over a braided black beard, appeared just beside Lieutenant Delmastro.

  “Hide Paolo and Cosetta on the orlop deck,” said Zamira. “We’re about to cause an argument.”

  “Aye,” he said, and hurried up the quarterdeck stairs.

  “As for you,” said Drakasha, returning her attention to the scrub watch, “hatchets and sabers are set out at the foremast. Take your choice and wait to help send the boats down.”

  “Captain Drakasha!”

  “What is it, Ravelle?”

  Locke cleared his throat and offered a silent prayer to the Nameless Thirteenth that he knew what he was doing. The time for a gesture was now; if he didn’t do something to restore a bit of prestige to Ravelle, he’d end up as just another member of the crew, shunned for his past failure. He needed to be respected if he expected to achieve any part of his mission. That meant a grand act of foolishness.

  “It’s my fault that these men nearly died aboard the Messenger. They were my crew, and I should have looked after them better. I’d like the chance to do that now. I want … the first seat on the lead boat.”

  “You expect me to let you command the attack?”

  “Not command,” said Locke. “Just go up the side first. Whatever’s there to b
leed us, let it bleed me first. Maybe I can spare whoever comes up next.”

  “That means me as well,” said Jean, placing a hand on Locke’s shoulder, somewhat protectively. “I go where he goes.”

  Gods bless you, Jean, thought Locke.

  “If it’s your ambition to stop a crossbow bolt,” said Drakasha, “I won’t say no.” She seemed a bit taken aback, however, and she gave the tiniest fraction of an approving nod to Locke as the crowd began to break up and head forward for their weapons.

  “Captain!” Lieutenant Delmastro stepped forward, her hands and forearms covered in soot from the smoke barrels. She glanced at Locke and Jean as she spoke. “Just who is leading the cutting-out boats anyway?”

  “Free-for-all, Del. I’m sending one Orchid per boat to hold them; what the scrub watch does after they climb the sides is their business.”

  “I want the boats.”

  Drakasha stared at her for several seconds, and said nothing. She was wreathed in gray smoke from the waist down.

  “I had nothing to do when we took the Messenger, Captain,” Delmastro said hastily. “In fact, I haven’t had any real fun with a prize for weeks.”

  Drakasha flicked her gaze over Jean and frowned. “You crave an indulgence.”

  “Aye. But a useful one.”

  Drakasha sighed. “You have the boats, Del. Mind you, Ravelle gets his wish.”

  Translation: If he takes an arrow for anyone, make sure it’s you, thought Locke.

  “You won’t regret it, Captain. Scrub watch! Arm yourselves and meet me at the waist!” Delmastro dashed up the quarterdeck stairs, past Utgar, who was leading the Drakasha children along with one clinging tightly to either hand.

  “You’re a bold and stupid fellow, Ravelle,” said Jabril. “I think I almost like you again.”

  “… at least he can fight, we know that much,” Locke heard one of the other men saying. “You should’ve seen him take care of the guard the night we got the Messenger. Pow! One little punch folded him right up. He’ll show us a thing or two this morning. You wait.”