by Scott Lynch
“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.”
“No quarrel with that logic, Captain. It’s the finding her that’s—”
“A royal pain in the ass. I know.”
“It’s not as though she’ll be roaming around announcing herself as Zamira Drakasha of the Poison Orchid,” said Ydrena, taking a sip of her tea. “ ‘Well met, we’re infamous shipwreckers from the Ghostwinds; mind if we pull alongside for a visit?’ ”
“She can claim whatever name she likes,” said Rodanov, “paint whatever she wants on her stern, mess with her sail plan until she looks like a constipated xebec, but she’s only got one hull. Dark witchwood hull. And we’ve been seeing it for years.”
“All hulls are dark until you get awful close, Captain.”
“Ydrena, if I had a better notion, believe me, we’d be pursuing it.” He yawned and stretched, feeling the heavy muscles in his arms flex pleasantly. “Only word we’ve got is a few ships getting hit, and now Salon Corbeau. She’s circling out here somewhere, keeping west. It’s what I’d do—more sea room.”
“Aye,” said Ydrena. “Such a very great deal of sea room.”
“Ydrena,” he said softly, “I’ve come a long way to break an oath and kill a friend. I’ll go as far as it takes, and I’ll haunt her wake as long as it takes. We’ll quarter this sea until one of us finds the other.”
“Or the crew decides they’ve had—”
“It’s a good long haul till we cross that line. In the meantime, double all our top-eyes by night. Triple them by day. We’ll put half the fucking crew up the masts if we have to.”
“New sail ahoy,” called a voice from atop the foremast. The cry was passed back down the deck, and Rodanov ran forward, unable to restrain himself. They’d heard the cry fifty times that week if they’d heard it once, but each time might be the time.
“Where away?”
“Three points off the starboard bow!”
“Ydrena,” Rodanov shouted, “set more canvas! Straight for the sighting! Helm, bring us about north-northeast on the starboard tack!”
Whatever the sighting was, the Dread Sovereign was at home in wind and waters like this; her size and weight allowed her to crash through waves that would steal speed from lighter vessels. They would close with the sighting very soon.
Still, the minutes passed interminably. They came about to their new course, seizing the power of the wind now blowing from just abaft their starboard beam. Rodanov prowled the forecastle, waiting—
“Captain Rodanov! She’s a two-master, sir! Say again, two masts!”
“Very good,” he shouted. “Ydrena! First mate to the forecastle!”
She was there in a minute, pale blond hair fluttering in the breeze. She tossed back the last of her morning tea as she arrived.
“Take my best glass to the foretop,” he said. “Tell me … as soon as you know anything.”
“Aye,” she said. “At least it’s something to do.”
The morning progressed with torturous slowness, but at least the sky was cloudless. Good conditions for spotting. The sun grew higher and brighter, until—
“Captain,” hollered Ydrena. “Witchwood hull! That’s a two-masted brig with a witchwood hull!”
He couldn’t stand waiting passively anymore. “I’m coming up myself,” he shouted.
Laboriously, he crawled up the foremast shrouds, to the observation platform at the maintop, a place he’d left to smaller, younger sailors for many years. Ydrena was perched there, along with a crewman who shuffled aside to make room for him on the platform. Rodanov took the glass and peered at the ship on the horizon, stared at it until not even the most cautious part of himself would let him deny it.
“It’s her,” he said. “She’s done something fancy to her sails, but that’s the Orchid.”
“What now?”
“Set every scrap of canvas we can bear,” he said. “Steal as much of this ocean from her as we can before she recognizes us.”
“Do you want to try and bring her up with signals? Offer parley, then jump her?”
“ ‘Let us speak behind our hands, lest our lips be read as the book of our designs,’ ” he said.
“More of your poetry?”
“Verse, not poetry. And no. She’ll recognize us, sooner or later, and when she does she’ll know exactly what our business is.”
He passed the glass back to Ydrena, and prepared to go back down the shrouds.
“Straight on for her, cloaks off and weapons free. We can give her that much, for the last fight she’ll ever have.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
BETWEEN BRETHREN
1
“DOES JEROME KNOW that you’re asking me to do this?”
“No.”
Locke stood beside Drakasha at the taffrail, huddled close to her so they could converse privately. It was the seventh hour of the morning, more or less, and the sun was ascending into a cloudless bowl of blue sky. The wind was from the east, a touch abaft their starboard beam, and the waves were getting rowdy.
“And you feel that—”
“Yes, I do feel that I can speak for both of us,” said Locke. “There’s no other choice. We won’t see Stragos again unless you do as he asks. And to be frank, if you do as he asks, I think our usefulness ends. We’ll have one more chance at physical access to him. It’s time to show this fucker how we used to do things in Camorr.”
“I thought you specialized in dishonest finesse.”
“I also do a brisk trade in putting knives to peoples’ throats and shouting at them,” said Locke.
“But if you request another meeting after we sink a few ships for him, don’t you think he’ll be prepared for treachery? Especially in a palace crowded with soldiers?”
“All I have to do is get close to him,” said Locke. “I’m not going to pretend I could fight my way th
rough a wall of guards, but from six inches with a good stiletto, I’m the hand of Aza Guilla Herself.”
“Hold him hostage, then?”
“Simple. Direct. Hopefully effective. If I can’t trick an antidote out of him, or cut a deal with his apothecary, maybe I can frighten him half to death.”
“And you honestly believe you’ve thought this through?”
“Captain Drakasha, I could barely sleep for pondering it. Why do you think I wandered back here to find you?”
“Well—”
“Captain!” The mainmast watch was hailing the deck. “Got action behind us!”
“What do you mean?”
“Sail maybe three points off the larboard quarter, at the horizon. Just came around real sudden. Went from sort of westerly to pointed right at us.”
“Good eyes,” said Drakasha. “Keep me informed. Utgar!”
“Aye, Captain?”
“Double the watch on each mast. On deck there! Make ready for a course change! Stand by tacks and braces! Wait for my word!”
“Real trouble, Captain?”
“Probably not,” said Drakasha. “Even if Stragos had changed his mind since yesterday and decided to hunt us down now, a Verrari warship wouldn’t be coming from that direction.”
“Hopefully.”
“Aye. So what we do is we change our own heading, nice and slow. If their course change was innocent, they’ll sail merrily past.” She cleared her throat. “Helm, come round northwest by north, smartly! Utgar! Get the yards braced for a wind on the starboard quarter!”
“Aye, Captain!”
The Poison Orchid slowly heeled even farther to larboard, until she was headed almost due northwest. The stiff breeze now blew across the quarterdeck, nearly into Locke’s face. To the south he fancied that he could see tiny sails; from the deck the vessel was still hull-down.
A few minutes later came the shout. “Captain! She’s come five or six points to her larboard! She’s for us again!”
“We’re off her starboard bow,” said Drakasha. “She’s trying to close with us. But that doesn’t make sense.” She snapped her fingers. “Wait. Might be a bounty-privateer.”
“How could they know it’s us?”
“Probably got a description of the Orchid from the crew of that ketch you visited. Look, we could only hope to disguise my girl for so long. These lovely witchwood planks of hers are too distinctive.”
“So … how much of a problem is this?”
“Depends on who’s got the speed. If she’s a bounty-privateer, that’s a profitless fight. She’ll be carrying dangerous folk and no swag. So if we’re the faster, I mean to show her our ass and wave farewell.”
“And if not?”
“A profitless fight.”
“Captain,” hollered one of the top-eyes, “she’s a three-master!”
“This just gets better and better,” said Drakasha. “Go wake up Ezri and Jerome for me.”
2
“BAD LUCK,” said Delmastro. “Bad damned luck.”
“Only for them, if I have my way,” said Zamira.
The captain and her lieutenant stood at the taffrail, staring at the faint square of white that marked their pursuer’s position on the horizon. Locke waited with Jean a few steps away, at the starboard rail. Drakasha had nudged the ship a few points south, so that they were traveling west-northwest with the wind fine on the starboard quarter, what she claimed was the Orchid’s best point of sail. Locke knew this was something of a risk; if their opponent was the faster, they could lay an intercepting course that would bring them up much sooner than a stern chase. The trouble was that such a chase to the north could not last; unlimited sea room existed only to their west.
“I’m not sure we’re gaining any ground, Captain,” said Delmastro after a few minutes of silence.
“Nor I. Damn this jumpy sea. If she’s a three-master she may have the weight to carve a better speed out of it.”
“Captain!” The cry from up the mainmast was even more urgent than usual. “Captain, she’s not falling away, and … Captain, beggin’ pardon, but you might want to come and see this for yourself.”
“See what?”
“If I ain’t mad I’ve seen that ship before,” shouted the watch-woman. “I’d swear it. I’d appreciate another set of eyes.”
“I’ll take a look,” said Delmastro. “Mind if I fetch up your favorite glass?”
“Drop it, and I’ll give your cabin over to Paolo and Cosetta.”
Locke watched as Delmastro went up the mainmast a few minutes later armed with Zamira’s pride and joy, a masterpiece of Verrari optics bound in alchemically treated leather. It was a few minutes more before her shout fell to the deck.
“Captain, that’s the Dread Sovereign!”
“What? Del, are you absolutely sure?”
“Seen her often enough, haven’t I?”
“I’m coming up myself!”
Locke exchanged a stare with Jean as Zamira leapt into the mainmast shrouds. A buzz of muttering and swearing had arisen among the crewfolk on deck. About a dozen abandoned their chores and headed aft, craning their necks for a glimpse of the sail in the south. They cleared away in alarm when Drakasha and Delmastro returned to the quarterdeck, looking grim.
“So it’s him?” said Locke.
“It is,” said Drakasha. “And if he’s been looking for us for any length of time, it means he sailed not all that long after we did.”
“So … he could be carrying a message or something, right?”
“No.” Drakasha removed her hat and ran her other hand through her braids, almost nervously. “He opposed this plan more than anyone else on the council of captains. He didn’t sail as long and as far as we did, to risk his ship within spitting distance of Tal Verrar, to deliver any message.
“I’m afraid we’ll need to postpone our previous conversation, Ravelle. The point is moot until we’re sure this ship will still be floating at the end of the day.”
3
LOCKE STARED out across the whitecaps at the Dread Sovereign, now well over the horizon, fixed on them like a needle drawn toward a lodestone. It was the tenth hour of the morning, and Rodanov’s progress at their expense was obvious.
Zamira slammed her glass shut and whirled away from the taffrail, where she’d been studying the same phenomenon.
“Captain,” said Delmastro, “there must be something … if we can just keep him off until nightfall—”
“Then we’d have options, aye. But only a straight stern chase could buy us that much time, and if we fly north we’ll find the coast long before dusk. Not to mention the fact that she’s fresh-careened and we’re past due. The plain truth is, we’ve already lost this race.”
Drakasha and Delmastro said nothing to each other for several moments, until Delmastro cleared her throat.
“I’ll, um, start getting things ready, shall I?”
“You’d better. Let the Red watch keep sleeping as long as you can, if any of them are still asleep.”
Delmastro nodded, grabbed Jean by the tunic sleeve, and pulled him with her toward the main-deck cargo hatch.
“You mean to fight,” said Locke.
“I have no choice but to fight. And neither do you, if you want to live to see dinner. Rodanov has nearly twice our numbers. You understand what a mess we’re looking at.”
“And it’s all for my sake, more or less. I’m sorry, Captain—”
“Avast bullshit, Ravelle. I won’t second-guess my decision to help you, so no one else gets to, either. This is Stragos’ doing, not yours. One way or another his plans would have put us in a tight spot.”
“Thank you for that, Captain Drakasha. Now … I know we’ve had our talk concerning the real extent of my skills in battle, but most of the crew probably still thinks I’m some sort of man-killer. I … I guess I’m saying—”
“You want a spot in the thick of it?”
“Yes.”
“Thought you might ask. I
already have a place for you,” she said. “Don’t think you’ll have it easy.”
She stepped away for a moment and shouted forward. “Utgar!”
“Aye, Captain?”
“Fetch the deep-sea lead and give me a cast!”
Locke raised his eyebrows by way of a question, and she said, “Need to know how much water we have beneath our feet. Then I’ll know about how long it’ll take the anchor to drop.”
“Why would you want to drop an anchor?”
“On that matter, you’ll just have to wait to be amazed. Along with Rodanov, hopefully … but that would be asking a great deal.”
“Captain,” Utgar yelled several minutes later, “got about ninety fathoms under us!”
“Right,” she said. “Ravelle, I know you’re off watch right now, but you were witless enough to wander back here and call attention to yourself. Grab a couple of Blues and bring up some ale casks from down below. Try to stay quiet for the sake of the Reds still sleeping. I’ll call all hands in about an hour, and it’s never wise to send people into a tussle like this with their throats too dry.”
“I’ll be happy to do that, Captain. About an hour, then? When do you think we’ll be—”
“I mean to bring the fight before noon. Only one way to win when you’re being chased by someone bigger and tougher than you are. Turn straight around, punch their teeth out, and hope the gods are fond of you.”
4
“ALL HANDS,” shouted Ezri one last time, “all hands at the waist! Idlers and lazy motherfuckers on deck! If you have watchmates still below, haul ’em up yourselves!”
Jean stood at the front of the crowd amidships, waiting for Drakasha to say her piece. She stood at the rail with Ezri, Nasreen, Utgar, Mumchance, Gwillem, and Treganne behind her. The scholar looked deeply annoyed that something as trivial as a murderous ship-to-ship fight could justify disrupting her usual habits.
“Listen well,” shouted Drakasha. “The ship bearing down on us is the Dread Sovereign. Captain Rodanov has taken exception to our business in these waters, and he’s come a long way to give us a fight.”