Red Seas Under Red Skies (34 page)

6

“EXCELLENT WORK,
Master Kosta. Fascinating and bloody unorthodox. By your reckoning, we're somewhere near the latitudes of the Kingdom of the Seven Marrows. A touch on the warm side for Vintila, don't you think?”

Locke slipped the backstaff, a four-foot pole with an awkward arrangement of vanes and calipers on the forward end, off his shoulder and sighed.

“Can you not see the sun-shadow on your horizon vane?”

“Yes, but—”

“I admit, the device ain't exactly as precise as an arrow-shot. But even a land-sucker should be able to do better than that. Do it again, just like I showed you. Horizon and sun-shadow. And be grateful you're using a Verrari Quadrant; the old cross-staffs made you look right at the sun instead of away from it.”

“Beg pardon,” said Jean, “but I'd always heard this device referred to as a Camorri Quadrant.”

“Bullshit,” said Caldris. “This here's a Verrari Quadrant. Verrari invented it, twenty years back.”

“That claim,” said Locke, “must take some of the sting out of getting the shit walloped out of you in the Thousand-Day War, eh?”

“You sweet on Camorri, Kosta?” Caldris put a hand on the backstaff. Locke realized with a start that his anger wasn't bantering. “I thought you was Talishani. You got a reason to fuckin' speak up for Camorr?”

“No, I was just—”

“Just what, now?”

“Forgive me.” Locke realized his mistake. “I didn't think. It's not just history to you, is it?”

“All thousand days and then some,” said Caldris. “I was there all the fuckin' way.”

“My apologies. I suppose you lost friends.”

“You damn well suppose right.” Caldris snorted. “Lost a ship from under me. Lucky not to be devilfish food. Bad times.” He removed his hand from Locke's backstaff and composed himself. “I know you didn't mean anything, Kosta. I'm…sorry, too. Those of us who bled in that fight didn't exactly think we was losing it when the Priori gave in. Partly why we had such hopes for the first archon.”

“Leocanto and I have no reason to love Camorr,” said Jean.

“Good.” Caldris clapped Locke on the back and seemed to relax. “Good. Keep it that way, eh? Now! We're lost at sea, Master Kosta! Find our latitude!”

It was the fourth day of their training with the Verrari sailing master; after their customary morning of torture at the oars, Caldris had led them out to the seaward side of the Silver Marina. Perhaps five hundred yards out from the glass island, still well within the sweep of calmed sea provided by the city's encircling reefs, there was a flat-topped stone platform in forty or fifty feet of translucent blue-green water. Caldris had called it the Lubber's Castle; it was a training platform for would-be Verrari naval and merchant sailors.

Their dinghy was lashed to the side of the platform, which was perhaps thirty feet on a side. Spread across the stones at their feet were an array of navigational devices: backstaffs, cross-staffs, hourglasses, charts and compasses, a Determiner's Box, and a set of unfathomable peg-boards that Caldris claimed were used for tracking course changes. The kitten was sleeping on an astrolabe, covering up the symbols etched into its brass surface.

“Friend Jerome was tolerably good at this,” said Caldris. “But he's not to be the captain; you are.”

“And I thought
you
were to handle all the important tasks, on pain of gruesome death, as you've only mentioned ten score times.”

“I am. You're mad if you think that's changed. But I need you to understand just enough not to gawk with your thumb up your ass when I say this or do that. Just know which end to hold, and be able to read a latitude that doesn't put us off by half the fucking world.”

“Sun-shadow and horizon,” muttered Locke.

“Indeed. Later on tonight, we'll use the old-style staff for the only thing it's still good for—taking your reading from the stars.”

“But it's just past noon!”

“Right,” said Caldris. “We're in for a good long haul today. There's books and charts and maths to do, and more sailing and rowing, then more books and charts. Late to bed, you'll be. Better get comfortable with this here Lubber's Castle.” Caldris spat on the stones. “Now fetch that fucking latitude!”

7

“WHAT'S IT
mean if we broach?” said Jean.

It was late in the evening of their ninth day with Caldris, and Jean was soaking in a huge brass tub. Despite the warmth of their enclosed chambers at the Villa Candessa, he'd demanded hot water, and it was still sending up wisps of curling steam after three-quarters of an hour. On a little table beside the tub was an open bottle of Austershalin brandy (the 554, the cheapest readily available) and both of the Wicked Sisters.

The shutters and curtains of the suite's windows were all drawn tight, the door was bolted, and Locke had wedged a chair up beneath its handle. That might provide a few seconds' additional warning if someone tried to enter by force. Locke lay on his bed, letting two glasses of brandy loosen the knots in his muscles. His knives were set out on the nightstand, not three feet from his hands.

“Ah, gods,” he said. “I know this. It's…something…bad?”

“To meet strong winds and seas abeam,” said Jean, “taking them on the side, rather than cutting through them with the bow.”

“And that's bad.”

“Powerful bad.” Jean was paging through a tattered copy of Indrovo Lencallis'
Wise Mariner's Practical Lexicon, with Numerous Enlightening Examples from Honest History
. “Come on, you're the captain of the ship. I'm just your skull-cracker.”

“I know. Give me another.” Locke's own copy of the book was currently resting underneath his knives and his glass of brandy.

“Hmmm.” Jean flipped pages. “Caldris says to put us on a beam reach. What the hell's he talking about?”

“Wind coming in perpendicular to the keel,” muttered Locke. “Hitting us straight on the side.”

“And now he wants a broad reach.”

“Right.” Locke paused to sip his brandy. “Wind neither blowing right up our ass nor straight on the side. Coming from one of the rear quarters, at forty-five degrees or so to the keel.”

“Good enough.” Jean flipped pages again. “Box the compass. What's the sixth point?”

“Hard east. Gods, this is just like dinner with Chains back home.”

“Right on both counts. South a point.”

“Um, east by south.”

“Right. South another point.”

“Southeast east?”

“And another point.”

“Ah, gods.” Locke grabbed his glass and downed the rest of his brandy in one gulp. “Southeast by go-fuck-yourself. That's enough for tonight.”

“But—”

“I am the captain of the bloody ship,” said Locke, rolling over onto his stomach. “My orders are to drink your brandy and go to bed.” He reached out, pulled a pillow completely over his head, and was fast asleep in moments. Even in his dreams he was tying knots, bracing sails, and finding latitudes.

8

“I WAS
not aware,” said Locke the next morning, “that I had joined your navy. I thought the whole idea was to run away from it.”

“A means to an end, Master Kosta.”

The archon had been waiting for them in their private bay within the Sword Marina. One of his personal boats (Locke remembered it from the glass caverns beneath the Mon Magisteria) was tied up behind their dinghy. Merrain and half a dozen Eyes had been in attendance. Now Merrain was helping Locke try on the uniform of a Verrari naval officer.

The tunic and breeches were the same dark blue as the doublets of the Eyes. The coat, however, was brownish red, with stiff black leather sewn along the forearms in approximation of bracers. The single neck-cloth was dark blue, and gleaming brass devices in the shape of roses over crossed swords were pinned to his upper arms just below the shoulders.

“I don't have many fair-haired officers in my service,” said Stragos, “but the uniform is a good fit. I'll have another made by the end of the week.” Stragos reached out and adjusted some of Locke's details—tightening his neck-cloth, shifting the hang of the empty scabbard at his belt. “After that, you'll wear it for a few hours each day. Get used to it. One of my Eyes will instruct you in how to carry yourself, and the courtesies and salutes we use.”

“I still don't understand why—”

“I know.” Stragos turned to Caldris, who, in his master's presence, had lost his customary vulgar impishness. “How are they doing in their training, sailing master?”

“The Protector is already well aware,” said Caldris slowly, “of my general opinion concerning this here mission.”

“That's not what I asked.”

“They are…less hopeless than they were, Protector. Somewhat less hopeless.”

“That will do, then. You still have nearly three weeks to mold them. I daresay they already look better acquainted with hard work under the sun.”

“Where's our ship, Stragos?” asked Locke.

“Waiting.”

“And where's our crew?”

“In hand.”

“And why the hell am I wearing this uniform?”

“Because it pleases me to make you a captain in my navy. That's what's meant by the twin roses-over-swords. You'll be a captain for one night only. Learn to look comfortable in the uniform. Then learn to be patient waiting for your orders.”

Locke scowled, then placed his right hand on his scabbard and crossed his left arm, with a clenched fist, across his chest. He bowed from the waist at the precise angle he'd seen Stragos' Eyes use on several occasions. “Gods defend the archon of Tal Verrar.”

“Very good,” said Stragos. “But you're an officer, not a common soldier or sailor. You bow at a shallower angle.”

He turned and walked toward his boat. The Eyes formed ranks and marched after him, and Merrain began pulling the uniform hurriedly off Locke.

“I return you gentlemen to Caldris' care,” said the archon as he stepped down into the boat. “Use your days well.”

“And just when in the name of the gods do we get to learn how this all fits together?”

“All in good time, Kosta.”

9

TWO MORNINGS
later, when the gates swung wide to admit Merrain's boat to the private bay in the Sword Marina, Locke and Jean were surprised to discover that their dinghy had been joined during the night by an actual ship.

A soft warm rain was falling, not a proper squall from the Sea of Brass but an annoyance blowing in from the mainland. Caldris waited on the stone plaza in a light oilcloak, with rivulets of water streaming from his unprotected hair and beard. He grinned when the boat delivered Locke and Jean, lightly clad and bootless.

“Look you both,” Caldris yelled. “Here she is in person. The ship we're damn likely to die on!” He clapped Locke on the back and laughed. “She's styled the
Red Messenger
.”

“Is she now?” The vessel was quiet and still, sails furled, lamps unlit. There was something unfathomably melancholy about a ship in such a condition, Locke thought. “One of the archon's, I presume?”

“No. It seems the gods have favored the Protector with a chance to be bloody economical with this mission. You know what stiletto wasps are?”

“Only too well.”

“Some idiot tried to put into port with a hive in his hold, not too long ago. Gods know what he was planning with it. That got him executed, and the ship was ruled droits of the archonate. That nest of little monsters got burned.”

“Oh,” said Locke, sniggering. “I'm very sure it was. Thorough and incorruptible, the fine customs officers of Tal Verrar.”

“Archon had it careened,” continued Caldris. “Needed new sails, some shoring up, fresh lines, bit of caulking. All the insides got smoked with brimstone, and she's been renamed and rechristened. Still plenty cheap, compared to offering up one of his own.”

“How old is she?”

“Twenty years, near as I can tell. Hard years, likely, but she'll hold for a few more. Assuming we bring her back. Now show me what you've learned. What do you think she is?”

Locke studied the vessel, which had two masts, a very slightly raised stern deck, and a single boat stored upside down at its waist. “Is she a
caulotte
?”

“No,” said Caldris, “she's more properly a
vestrel
, what you'd also call a brig, a very wee one. I can see why you'd say
caulotte
. But let me tell you why you're off on the particulars….”

Caldris launched into a number of highly technical explanations, pointing out things about leeward main braces and cross-jacks that Locke only half understood in the manner of a visitor to a foreign city listening to eager directions from a fast native talker.

“…she's eighty-eight feet, stem to stern, not counting the bowsprit, of course,” finished Caldris.

“I hadn't truly realized before now,” said Locke. “Gods, I'm to actually command this ship.”

“Ha! No. You are to
feign
command of this ship. Don't get blurry-eyed on me, now. All you do is tell the crew what
my
proper orders are. Hurry aboard.”

Caldris led them up a ramp and onto the deck of the
Red Messenger
, and while Locke gazed around, absorbed in every visible detail, a gnawing unease was growing in his stomach. He'd taken all the minutiae of shipboard life for granted on his single previous (and bedridden) voyage, but now every knot and ring-bolt, every block and tackle, every shroud and line and pin and mechanism might hold the key to saving his life…or foiling his impersonation utterly.

“Damn,” he muttered to Jean. “Maybe ten years ago, I might have been dumb enough to think this was going to be easy.”