Red Seas Under Red Skies (38 page)

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?”

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 authority 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.”

“Ravelle is an ass, too,” said the archon. “I've had that specifically written into his back history. Now, something you should know about Tal Verrar—the Priori's constables guard Highpoint Citadel Gaol in the Castellana. The majority of the city's prisoners go there. But while Windward Rock is a much smaller affair, it's mine. Manned and provisioned only by my people.”

The archon smiled. “That's where Ravelle's treachery will reach the point of no return. That, Master Kosta, is where you'll get your crew.”

5

TRUE TO
Stragos' warning, there was an additional guard to be disarmed in the first cell level beneath the entrance hall, at the foot of a wide spiral staircase of black iron. The stone tower overhead was for guards and alchemical lights; Windward Rock's true purpose was served by three ancient stone vaults that went down far beneath the sea, into the roots of the island.

The man saw them coming and took immediate alarm; no doubt Locke and Jean descending alone was a breach of procedure. Jean relieved him of his sword as he charged up the steps, kicked him in the face, and pinned him, squirming, on his stomach. Jean's month of exercise at Caldris' whim seemed to have left his strength more bullish than ever, and Locke almost pitied the poor fellow struggling beneath his friend. Locke reached over, gave the guard a touch of witfrost, and whistled jauntily.

That was it for the night shift—a skeleton force with no cooks or other attendants. One guard at the docks, two in the entrance hall, one on the first cell level. The two on the roof, by Stragos' direct order, would have sipped drugged tea and fallen asleep with the pot between them. They'd be found by their morning relief with a plausible excuse for their incapacity—and another lovely layer of confusion would be thrown over the whole affair.

There were no boats kept at Windward Rock itself, so even if prisoners could conceivably escape from iron-barred cells set into the weeping walls of the old vaults, and win free through the barred entrance hall and lone reinforced door, they'd face a swim across a mile of open water (at least), watched with interest by many things in the depths eager for a meal.

Locke and Jean ignored the iron door leading to the cells of the first level, continuing down the spiraling staircase. The air was dank, smelling of salt and unwashed bodies. Past the iron door on the second level, they found themselves in a vault divided into four vast cells, long and low-ceilinged, two on each side with a fifteen-foot corridor down the middle.

Only one of these cells was actually occupied; several dozen men lay sleeping in the pale green light of barred alchemical globes set high on the walls. The air in here was positively rank, dense with the odors of unclean bedding, urine, and stale food. Faint tendrils of mist curled around the prisoners. A few wary pairs of eyes tracked Locke and Jean as they stepped up to the cell door.

Locke nodded to Jean, and the bigger man began to pound his fist against the bars of the door. The clamor was sharp, echoing intolerably from the dripping walls of the vault. Disturbed prisoners rose from their dirty pallets, swearing and hollering.

“Are you men comfortable in there?” Locke shouted to be heard above the din. Jean ceased his pounding.

“We'd be lots more comfortable with a nice sweet Verrari captain in here for us to fuck sideways,” said a prisoner near the door.

“I have no patience to speak of,” said Locke, pointing at the door he and Jean had come through. “If I walk back out that door, I won't be coming back.”

“Piss off, then, and let us sleep,” said a scarecrow of a man in a far corner of the cell.