by Scott Lynch
On deck, Locke could see that the Volantyne’s Resolve was a two-masted brig with her rigging in good order; her sails were neither straight from the yard nor frayed to threads. About two dozen men and women had been formed up to watch Locke and Jean emerge from the great cabin. Most of them had the tan, rangy look of sailors, but a few of the heavier ones, big-boned land animals for sure, looked like freshly hired muscle.
“This is the easiest cruise we’ve ever been given,” said Volantyne. “We’re headed west, up the Cavendria and out to sea. We’ll have an autumn excursion for a month, then we’ll turn round and take it slow and easy back to Karthain. You gentlemen will enjoy a luxurious cabin, books to read, fine meals. The wines we’ve laid in for the voyage will make you think you’re royalty. All this, on one condition only—good behavior.”
“I can pay,” said Locke, raising his voice to a shout, “three times what each of you is receiving now! You would have it merely for getting us back to Karthain! Two days’ work, rather than two months!”
“Now, sir,” said Volantyne, looking cross for the first time, “that’s not good behavior at all. Any further talk in that vein will get you sent down to the hold. There’s two ways to make this trip—with free limbs and full stomachs, or cinched up tight in darkness, let out once a day to eat and piss. I’m to take the tenderest care with your lives, but your liberty can go straight overboard if you give us trouble.”
“What about these things around our ankles?” said Locke.
“Shields from temptation,” said Volantyne.
“Gah,” Locke muttered. “Also, where’s this food—”
“Sirs, the thousand apologies,” cried a man in a stained brown robe who came stumbling up from below via the main deck hatch. He was pale, with grayish-blond hair, and carried a silver tray set with a plain iron tureen and several loaves of bread. “I have the foods!”
“This famous cook of yours is a Vadran?” said Jean.
“Yes, I know,” said Volantyne, “but you must trust me. Adalric was trained in Talisham, and he knows his business.”
“The oysters, in sauce from ale has I boiled,” said the cook.
He held the tray out to Locke, and the scents of fresh food were as good as a fist to the jaw.
“Um, discussion of the situation,” said Locke, “can recommence in about half an hour.”
“So long as you quit trying to bribe my crew, you may speak as you please, honored passengers,” said Volantyne.
2
AS THE first day passed, and the second, it became clear that their situation was both the most comfortable and the most vexing imprisonment Locke could have imagined.
Their meals were plentiful and magnificent, the wine better even than promised, the ale fresh and sweet, and their requests were taken up without hesitation or complaint.
“These bastards have made their fortunes on this venture,” said Jean, over the remnants of lunch on the second day. “Isn’t that right, shipmates? It’s the only possible explanation for our treatment. A pile of gold in every pocket.”
Every meal was eaten in the presence of at least four attendants, silent and polite and utterly vigilant. Every knife and fork was counted, every scrap and bone was collected. Locke could have palmed any number of useful items, but there was no point to it, not until the other difficulties of their situation could be surmounted.
Their bedding was turned out and replaced each day, and they were kept on deck while it happened. Locke could see just enough of the activity within the cabin to depress his spirits. All of their books were given a shake, their chests were opened and searched, their hammocks scoured, the floor planks examined in minute detail. By the time they were let back in, everything was restored to its proper place and the cabin was as fresh as if it had never been used, but it was useless to hide anything.
They were searched several times each day, and weren’t even permitted to wear shoes. The only extraneous object they possessed, in fact, was Jean’s tightly bound lock of Ezri’s hair. Locke was surprised to see it on the morning of their third day.
“I had a few words with Sabetha, after her people finally knocked me down.” Jean lay in his hammock, idly turning the hair over and over in his hands. “She said that some courtesies were not to be refused.”
“Did she say anything else? About me, or for me?”
“I think she’s said everything she means to say, Locke. This ship’s as good as a farewell note.”
“She must have given Volantyne and his crew ten pages of directions concerning us.”
“Even their little boat is lashed tighter than usual, as though some god might reach down and snatch it off the deck,” said Jean casually.
“Oh really?” Locke slipped out of his hammock, crept over to Jean’s side of the cabin, and lowered his voice. “On the larboard side of the main deck? You think we could make something of it?”
“We’d never have time to hoist it properly. But if we could weaken the ropes, and if the deck was pitching …”
“Shit,” said Locke. “Once we hit the Cavendria, we’ll be steady as a cup of tea until we’re out the other side. How many of our friends do you figure we could handle at once?”
“How many could I handle at once? Let’s be pragmatic and say three. I’m pretty sure I could club the whole crew down one or two at a time if nobody raised an alarm, but you’ve seen their habits. They never work alone. I’m not sure the brute force approach will get us very far.”
“You know, it certainly would be nice to receive an unannounced visit from our benefactor Patience,” said Locke. “Or anyone associated with her. Right about now. Or … now!”
“I think we’re on our own,” said Jean. “I’m sure someone or something is watching us, but Sabetha put us here. It seems within the rules as Patience explained them.”
“I wonder if her Bondsmagi would be so sporting.”
“Well, there is a bright side. We’re eating well enough. You’re not looking like such a wrenched-out noodle anymore.”
“That’s great, Jean. I’m not just exiled; I’m being plumped up for slaughter. Suppose there’s any chance we might run into Zamira if we reach the Sea of Brass?”
“What the hell would she be doing back up here so soon after everything that happened?” Jean yawned and stretched. “The Poison Orchid’s as likely to come over the horizon and save us as I am to give birth to a live albatross.”
“It was just an idle thought,” said Locke. “A damned pleasing idle thought. So, I suppose we pray for heavy weather.”
“And worry about cutting some ropes,” said Jean. “Ideas?”
“I could have a makeshift knife on an hour’s notice. So long as I knew it would be used before they turned our cabin over the next day.”
“Good. And what about our ankle manacles? You’ve always been better with that sort of thing than I have.”
“The mechanisms are delicate. I could come up with bone splinters small enough to fit, but those are brittle. One snap and they’d jam up the locks for good.”
“Then we might just have to bear them until we can hit land,” said Jean. “Well, first things first. We need to be within reasonable distance of a beach, and we need a rolling deck, and we need to not be tied up in the hold when our chance comes.”
3
THE SKY turned gray again that night, and ominous clouds boiled on the horizons, but the gentle rolling of the Amathel barely tilted the deck of the Resolve in one direction or another. Locke spent several hours leaning against the main deck rails, feigning placidity, straining secretly for any glimpse of a bolt of lightning or an oncoming thunderhead. The only lights to be seen, however, were the ghostly flickerings from within the black depths of the lake, twinkling like constellations of fire.
Their progress was slow. The strange autumn winds were against them much of the time, and with no mages to shape the weather to their taste, they had to move by tack after long, slow tack to the southwest. Volantyne and his crew
seemed to care not a whit. Whether they sailed half the world or half a mile, their pay would be the same.
On the night of their fourth day, Locke caught flashes of whitish yellow illuminating the southern horizon, but his excitement died when he realized that he was looking at Lashain.
On the fifth day they picked up speed, and the capricious winds grew stronger. The whole sky bruised over with promising clouds, and just after noon the first drops of cool rain began to fall. Locke and Jean retreated to their cabin, trying to look innocent. They buried themselves in books and idle conversation, glancing out the cabin window every few moments, watching in mutual satisfaction as the troughs between the waves deepened and the strands of foam thickened at their crests.
At the third hour of the afternoon, with the rain steady and the lake rolling at four or five feet, Adalric came to their door to receive instructions for dinner.
“Perhaps the soup of the veal, masters?”
“By all means,” said Locke. If any chance to escape was coming, he wanted to face it with at least one more of the Vadran prodigy’s feasts shoved down his gullet.
“And how about chicken?” said Jean.
“I’ll do one the murder right away.”
“Dessert too,” said Locke. “Let’s have a big one tonight. Storms make me hungry.”
“I have a cake of the honey and ginger,” said Adalric.
“Good man,” said Jean. “And let’s have some wine. Two bottles of sparkling apple, eh?”
“Two bottles,” said the cook. “I has it brung to you.”
“Decent fellow, for all that he tramples the language,” said Locke when the door had closed behind the cook. “I hate to take advantage of him.”
“He won’t miss us if we slip away,” said Jean. “He’s got the whole crew to appreciate him. You know what sort of slop they’d be gagging down if he wasn’t aboard.”
Locke went on deck a few minutes later, letting the rain soak him as he stood by the foremast, feigning indifference as the deck rolled slowly from side to side. It was a gentle motion as yet, but if the weather continued to pick up it was a very promising trend indeed.
“Master Lazari!” Solus Volantyne came down from the quarterdeck, oilcloak fluttering. “Surely you’d be more comfortable in your cabin?”
“Perhaps our mutual friend neglected to tell you, Captain Volantyne, that Master Callas and myself have been at sea. Compared to what we endured down in the Ghostwinds, this is invigorating.”
“I do know something of your history, Lazari, but I’m also charged with your safety.”
“Well, until someone takes these damned bracelets off my ankles I can’t exactly swim to land, can I?”
“And what if you catch cold?”
“With Adalric aboard? He must have possets that would drive back death itself.”
“Will you at least consent to an oilcloak, so you look like less of a crazy landsman?”
“That’d be fine.”
Volantyne summoned a sailor with a spare cloak, and Locke resumed talking as he fastened it over his shoulders. “Now, pardon my ignorance, but where the hell are we, anyway?”
“Forty miles due west of Lashain, give or take a hair in any direction.”
“Ah. I thought I spotted the city last night.”
“We’re not making good westward progress. If I had a schedule to keep I’d be in a black mood, but thanks to you, we’re in no hurry, are we?”
“Quite. Are those heavier storms to the south?”
“That shadow? That’s a lee shore, Master Lazari. A damned lee shore. We’re eight or nine miles off the southern coast of the Amathel, and fighting to get no closer. If we can punch through this mess and claw another twenty or thirty miles west-nor’west, we should be clear straight to the Cavendria, and from there it’s like a wading pond all the way to the Sea of Brass.”
“Well, that’s good to hear,” said Locke. “Rest assured, I’ve got absolutely no interest in drowning.”
4
DINNER WAS excellent and productive. Four of Volantyne’s sailors watched from the corners of the cabin while Locke and Jean packed away soup, chicken, bread, cake, and sparkling apple wine. Just after opening the second bottle, however, Locke signaled Jean that he was about to have a clumsy moment.
Timing himself to the sway of the ship, Locke swept the new bottle off the table. It landed awkwardly and broke open, spilling cold frothing wine across his bare feet. Realizing that the bottle hadn’t shattered into the selection of knife-like shards he’d hoped for, he managed to drop his wineglass as well, with more satisfactory results.
“Ah, shit, that was good stuff,” he said loudly, slipping off his chair and crouching above the mess. He waved his hands over it, as though unsure of what to do, and in an instant a long, sturdy piece of glass was shifted from his palm to his tunic-sleeve. It was delicate work; a red stain beneath the cloth would surely draw attention.
“Don’t,” said one of the sailors, waving for one of his companions to go on deck. “Don’t touch anything. We’ll get it for you.”
Locke put his hands up and took several careful steps back.
“I’d call for more wine,” said Jean, hoisting his own glass teasingly, “but it’s possible you’ve had enough.”
“That was the motion of the ship,” said Locke.
The missing guard returned with a brush and a metal pan. He quickly swept up all the fragments.
“We’ll scrub the deck when we give the cabin a turn tomorrow, sir,” said one of the sailors.
“At least it smells nice,” said Locke.
The guards didn’t search him. Locke admired the deepening darkness through the cabin window and allowed himself the luxury of a faint smirk.
When the remains of dinner were cleared (every knife and fork and spoon accounted for) and the cabin was his and Jean’s again, Locke carefully drew out the shard of glass and set it on the table.
“Doesn’t look like much,” said Jean.
“It needs some binding,” said Locke. “And I know just where to get it.”
While Jean leaned against the cabin door, Locke used the glass shard to carefully worry the inside front cover of the copy of The Republic of Thieves. After a few minutes of slicing and peeling, he produced an irregular patch of the binding leather and a quantity of the cord that had gone into the spine of the volume. He nestled the glass fragment inside the leather and wrapped it tightly around the edges, creating something like a tiny handsaw. The leather-bound side could be safely nestled against the palm of a hand, and the cutting edge of the shard could be worked against whatever needed slicing.
“Now,” said Locke softly, holding his handiwork up to the lantern-light and examining it with a mixture of pride and trepidation, “shall we take a turn on deck and enjoy the weather?”
The weather had worsened agreeably to a hard-driving autumn rain. The Amathel was whipped up to waves of six or seven feet, and lightning flashed behind the ever-moving clouds.
Locke and Jean, both wearing oilcloaks, settled down against the inner side of the jolly boat lashed upside-down to the main deck. It was about fifteen feet long, of the sort usually hung at a ship’s stern. Locke supposed that the urgent need to put the iron bars around the windows of the great cabin had forced the crew to shift the boat. It was secured to the deck via lines and ring-bolts; nothing that a crew of sailors couldn’t deal with in just a few minutes, but if he and Jean tried to free the boat conventionally it would take far too long to escape notice. Cutting was the answer—weaken the critical lines, wait for a fortuitous roll of the ship, heave the jolly boat loose, and then somehow join it after it pitched over the side.
Jean sat placidly while Locke worked with the all-important glass shard—five minutes, ten minutes, twenty minutes. Locke’s oilcloak was a blessing, making it possible to conceal the activity, but the need to hold the arm and shoulder still put all the burden on wrist and forearm. Locke worked until he ached, then carefully passed th
e shard to Jean.
“You two seem strangely heedless of the weather,” shouted Volantyne, moving past with a lantern. He studied them, his eyes flicking here and there for anything out of place. Eventually he relaxed, and Locke’s heart resumed its usual duties.
“We’re still warm from dinner, Captain,” said Jean. “And we’ve lived through storms on the Sea of Brass. This is a fine diversion from the monotony of our cabin.”
“Monotony, perhaps, but also security. You may remain for now, so long as you continue to stay out of the way. We’ll have business with the sails soon enough. If we find ourselves much closer to shore, I shall require you to go below.”
“Having problems?” said Locke.
“Damned nuisance of a wind from the north and the northwest—seems to veer however’s least convenient. We’re five miles off the beach where we should be ten.”
“We are your most loyal and devoted articles of ballast, Captain,” said Locke. “Let us digest a bit longer and maybe we’ll scuttle back inside.”
As soon as Volantyne stepped away, Locke felt Jean get back to work.
“We don’t have much time,” muttered Jean. “And one or two uncut lines are as good as twenty; some things don’t break for any man’s strength.”
“I’ve done some real damage to my side,” said Locke. “All we can do is keep it up as long as possible.”
The minutes passed; sailors came and went on deck, checking for faults everywhere but directly behind the two men working desperately to cause one. The ship rolled steadily from side to side, lightning flared on every horizon, and Locke found himself growing more and more tense as the minutes passed. If this failed, he had no doubt that Volantyne’s threat to seal them up in one of the holds would be carried out immediately.
“Oh, hells,” muttered Jean. “Feel that?”
“Feel what? Oh, damn.” The ship had tilted to starboard, and the weight of the jolly boat was pressing more firmly against Locke’s back and shoulders. The lines holding it down were starting to give way sooner than he’d expected. “What the hell do we do now?”