Red Seas Under Red Skies (41 page)

12

“SAIL AHOY!
Sail two points off the larboard bow!”

The cry filtered down from above on the third morning of their voyage south. Locke sat in his cabin, regarding his blurry reflection in the dented little mirror he'd packed in his chest. Before departure, he'd used a bit of alchemy from his disguise kit to restore his hair to its natural color, and now a fine shadow in much the same shade was appearing on his cheeks. He wasn't yet sure if he'd shave it, but with the shout from above, his concern for his beard vanished. In a moment he was out of the cabin, up the awkward steps of the dim companionway, and into the bright light of morning on the quarterdeck.

A haze of high white clouds veiled the blue sky, like wisps of tobacco smoke that had drifted far from the pipes of their progenitors. They'd had the wind on their larboard beam since reaching open sea, and the
Red Messenger
was heeled over slightly to starboard. The constant swaying and creaking and deck-slanting were utterly alien to Locke, who'd been confined to a cabin by infirmity on his last—and only previous—sea voyage. He flattered himself that the trained agility of a thief went some way toward feigning sea legs, but he avoided scampering around too much, just in case. At least he appeared to be immune to seasickness this time out, and for that he thanked the Crooked Warden fervently. Many aboard had not been so lucky.

“What passes, Master Caldris?”

“Compliments of a fine morning, Captain, and the masthead watch says we got white canvas two points off the larboard bow.”

Caldris had the wheel to himself this morning, and he drew light puffs from a cheap sheaf of cut-rate tobacco that stank like sulfur. Locke wrinkled his nose.

Sighing inwardly and stepping with as much care as he could manage, Locke brought out his seeing glass and hurried forward, up the forecastle and to the rail on the larboard bow. Yes, there it was—hull down, a minute speck of white, barely visible above the dark blue of the distant horizon. When he returned to the quarterdeck, Jabril and several other sailors were lounging around, waiting for his verdict.

“Do we give her the eyeball, Captain?” Jabril seemed merely expectant, but the men behind him looked downright eager.

“Looking for an early taste of those equal shares, eh?” Locke feigned deep consideration, turning toward Caldris long enough to catch the sailing master's private signal for an emphatic no. As Locke had expected—and he could give legitimate reasons without prompting.

“Can't do it, lads. You know better than that. We've not yet begun to set our own ship to rights; little sense in taking a fight to someone else's. A quarter of us are still unfit for work, let alone battle. We've got fresh food, a clean ship, and all the time in the world. Better chances will come. Hold course, Master Caldris.”

“Hold course, aye.”

Jabril accepted this; Locke was discovering that the man had a solid core of sense and a fair knowledge of nearly every aspect of shipboard life, which made him Locke's superior in that wise. He was a fine mate, another bit of good fortune to be grateful for. The men behind Jabril, now…Locke instinctively knew they needed some occupying task to help mitigate their disappointment.

“Streva,” he said to the youngest, “heave the log aft. Mal, you mind the minute-glass. Report to Master Caldris. Jabril, you know how to use a recurved bow?”

“Aye, Captain. Shortbow, recurved, longbow. Decent aim with any.”

“I've got ten of them in a locker down in the aft hold. Should be easy to find. Couple hundred arrows, too. Rig up some archery butts with canvas and straw. Mount them at the bow so nobody gets an unpleasant surprise in the ass. Start sharpening up the lads in groups, every day when the weather allows. Time comes to finally pay a visit to another ship, I'll want good archers in the tops.”

“Fine idea, Captain.”

That, at least, seemed to restore excitement to the sailors who were still milling near the quarterdeck. Most of them followed Jabril down a hatchway to the main deck. Their interest in the matter gave Locke a further thought.

“Master Valora!”

Jean was with Mirlon, their cook, scrutinizing something at the little brick firebox abutting the forecastle. He waved in acknowledgment of Locke's shout.

“By sunset I want to know that every man aboard knows where all the weapons lockers are. Make sure of it yourself.”

Jean nodded and returned to whatever he was doing. By Locke's reckoning, the idea that Captain Ravelle wanted every man to be comfortable with the ship's weapons—aside from the bows, there were hatchets, sabers, clubs, and a few polearms—would be far better for morale than the thought that he would prefer keeping them locked up or hidden.

“Well done,” said Caldris quietly.

Mal watched the last few grains in the minute-glass bolted to the mainmast run out, then turned aft and shouted, “Hold the line!”

“Seven and a half knots,” Streva hollered a moment later.

“Seven and a half,” said Caldris. “Very well. We've been making that more or less steady since we left Verrar. A good run.”

Locke snuck a glance at the pegs sunk into the holes on Caldris' navigational board, and the compass in the binnacle, which showed them on a heading just a hairsbreadth west of due south.

“A fine pace if it holds,” muttered Caldris around his cigar. “Puts us in the Ghostwinds maybe two weeks from today. Don't know about the captain, but getting a few days ahead of schedule makes me
very
bloody comfortable.”

“And will it hold?” Locke spoke as softly as he could without whispering into the sailing master's ear.

“Good question. Summer's end's an odd time on the Sea of Brass; we got storms out there somewhere. I can feel it in my bones. They're a ways off, but they're waiting.”

“Oh, splendid.”

“We'll make do, Captain.” Caldris briefly removed his cigar, spat something brown at the deck, and returned it to between his teeth. “Fact is, we're doing just fine, thank the Lord of the Grasping Waters.”

13

“KILL 'IM,
Jabril! Get 'im right in the fuckin' 'eart!”

Jabril stood amidships, facing a frock coat (donated from Locke's chest) nailed to a wide board and propped up against the mainmast, about thirty feet away. Both of his feet touched a crudely chalked line on the deck planks. In his right hand was a throwing knife, and in his left was a full wine bottle, by the rules of the game.

The sailor who'd been shouting encouragement burped loudly and started stomping the deck. The circle of men around Jabril picked up the rhythm and began clapping and chanting, slowly at first, then faster and faster. “Don't spill a drop! Don't spill a drop! Don't spill a
drop
! Don't spill a
drop
!
Don't spill a drop!
”

Jabril flexed for the crowd, wound up, and flung the knife. It struck dead center in the coat, and up went a cheer that quickly turned to howls. Jabril had sloshed some of the wine out of the bottle.

“Dammit!” he cried.

“Wine-waster,”
shouted one of the men gathered around him, with the fervor of a priest decrying the worst sort of blasphemy. “Pay the penalty and put it where it belongs!”

“Hey, at least I hit the coat,” said Jabril with a grin. “You nearly killed someone on the quarterdeck with your throw.”

“Pay the price! Pay the price! Pay the price!” chanted the crowd.

Jabril put the bottle to his lips, tipped it all the way up, and began to guzzle it in one go. The chanting rose in volume and tempo as the amount of wine in the bottle sank. Jabril's neck and jaw muscles strained mightily, and he raised his free hand high into the air as he sucked the last of the dark red stuff down.

The crowd applauded. Jabril pulled the bottle from his lips, lowered his head, and sprayed a mouthful of wine all over the man closest to him. “Oh no,” he cried, “I
spilled
a drop! Ah ha ha ha ha!”

“My turn,” said the drenched sailor. “I'm gonna lose on purpose and spill a drop right back, mate!”

Locke and Caldris watched from the starboard rail of the quarterdeck. Caldris was taking a rare break from the wheel; Jean currently had it. They were sailing along in a calm, muggy dusk just pleasant enough for Caldris to separate himself from the ship's precious helm by half a dozen paces.

“This was a good idea,” said Locke.

“Poor bastards have been under the boot for so long, they deserve a good debauch.” Caldris was smoking a pale blue ceramic pipe, the finest and most delicate thing Locke had ever seen in his hands, and his face was lit by the soft glow of embers.

At Caldris' suggestion, Locke had had large quantities of wine and beer (the
Red Messenger
was amply provisioned with both, and for a crew twice this size) hauled up on deck, and he'd offered a choice of indulgences to every man on board. A double ration of fresh roasted pork—courtesy of the small but well-larded pig they'd brought with them—for those who would stay sober and on watch, and a drunken party for those who wouldn't. Caldris, Jean, and Locke were sober, of course, along with four hands who'd chosen the pork.

“It's things like this that makes a ship seem like home,” said Caldris. “Help you forget what a load of tedious old shit life out here can be.”

“It's not so bad,” said Locke, a bit wistfully.

“Aye, says the captain of the fuckin' ship, on a night sent by the gods.” He drew smoke and blew it out over the rail. “Well, if we can arrange a few more nights like this, it'll be bloody grand. Quiet moments are worth more than whips and manacles for discipline, mark my words.”

Locke gazed out across the black waves and was startled to see a pale white-green shape, glowing like an alchemical lantern, leap up from the waves and splash back down a few seconds later. The arc of its passage left an iridescent afterimage when he blinked.

“Gods,” he said, “what the hell is
that
?”

There was a fountain of the things, now, about a hundred yards from the ship. They flew silently after one another, appearing and disappearing above the surf, casting their ghostly light on black water that returned it like a mirror.

“You really are new to these waters,” said Caldris. “Those are flit-wraiths, Kosta. South of Tal Verrar, you see 'em all about. Sometimes in great schools, or arches leapin' over the water. Over ships. They've been known to follow us about. But only after dark, mind you.”

“Are they some kind of fish?”

“Nobody rightly knows,” said Caldris. “Flit-wraiths can't be caught. They can't be
touched
, as I hear it. They fly right through nets, like they was ghosts. Maybe they are.”

“Eerie,” said Locke.

“You get used to 'em after a few years,” said Caldris. He drew smoke from his pipe, and the orange glow strengthened momentarily. “The Sea of Brass is a damned strange place, Kosta. Some say it's haunted by the Eldren. Most say it's just plain haunted. I've seen things. Saint Corella's fire, burnin' blue and red up on the yardarms, scaring the piss outta the top-watch. I sailed over seas like glass and seen…a city, once. Down below, not kidding. Walls and towers, white stone. Plain as day, right beneath our hull. In waters that our charts put at a thousand fathoms. Real as my nose it was, then gone.”

“Heh,” said Locke, smiling. “You're pretty good at this. You don't have to toy with me, Caldris.”

“I'm not toying with you one bit, Kosta.” Caldris frowned, and his face took on a sinister cast in the pipe-light. “I'm telling you what to expect. Flit-wraiths is just the beginning. Hell, flit-wraiths is almost friendly. There's things out there even I have trouble believing. And there's places no sensible ship's master will ever go. Places that are…wrong, somehow. Places that
wait
for you.”

“Ah,” said Locke, recalling his desperate early years in the old and rotten places of Camorr, and a thousand looming, broken buildings that had seemed to wait in darkness to swallow small children. “Now there I grasp your meaning.”

“The Ghostwind Isles,” said Caldris, “well, they're the worst of all. In fact, there's only eight or nine islands human beings have actually set foot on, and come back to tell about it. But gods know how many more are hiding down there, under the fogs, or what the fuck's on 'em.” He paused before continuing. “You ever hear of the three settlements of the Ghostwinds?”

“I don't think so,” said Locke.

“Well.” Caldris took another long puff on his pipe. “Originally there was three. Settlers out of Tal Verrar touched there about a hundred years ago. Founded Port Prodigal, Montierre, and Hope-of-Silver.

“Port Prodigal's still there, of course. Only one left. Montierre was doing well until the war against the Free Armada. Prodigal's tucked well back in a fine defensive position; Montierre wasn't. After we did for their fleet, we paid a visit. Burnt their fishing boats, poisoned their wells, sank their docks. Torched everything standing, then torched the ashes. Might as well have just rubbed the name ‘Montierre' off the map. Place ain't worth resettling.”

“And Hope-of-Silver?”

“Hope-of-Silver,” said Caldris, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Fifty years ago, Hope-of-Silver was larger than Port Prodigal. On a different island, farther west. Thriving. That silver wasn't just a hope. Three hundred families, give or take.

“Whatever happened, happened in one night. Those three hundred families, just…gone.”

“Gone?”

“Gone. Vanished. Not a body to be found. Not a bone for birds to pick at. Something came down from those hills, out of that fog above the jungle, and gods know what it was, but it took 'em all.”

“Merciful hells.”

“If only,” said Caldris. “A ship or two poked around after it happened. They found one ship from Hope-of-Silver itself, drifting offshore, like it'd put out in a real hurry. On it, they found the only bodies left from the whole mess. A few sailors. All the way up the masts, up at the very tops.” Caldris sighed. “They'd lashed themselves there to escape whatever they'd seen…and they were all found dead by their own weapons. Even where they were, they killed themselves rather than face whatever was comin' for 'em.