Red Seas Under Red Skies (45 page)

“Lord of the Grasping Waters shield us!” said another sailor.

“Our misfortune's been made by you,” Jabril continued. “You admit your lies and ignorance. I say this ship ain't clean till we get you off her! What's the word of all?”

There was a loud, immediate, and unanimous chorus of agreement; the sailors shook their weapons at Locke and Jean as they cheered.

“That's that,” said Jabril. “Drop your weapons on the deck.”

“Wait,” said Locke. “You said we'd talk, and I'm not finished!”

“I brought you on deck safe, and we did talk. Talk's finished, oath's paid off.” Jabril folded his arms. “Lose your weapons!”

“Now—”

“Archers!” yelled Jabril. The men atop the forecastle took aim.

“What's the choice?” Locke shouted angrily. “Disarm so we can
what
?”

“Keep your arms and die bleeding on this deck,” said Jabril. “Or disarm, and swim as far as you can. Let Iono be your judge.”

“Quick and painful or slow and painful. Right.” Locke unbound his sword-belt and let it drop to the deck. “Master Valora had nothing to do with my cock-ups. I dragged him into this same as you!”

“Now, wait a fucking minute…,” said Jean, as he set the Wicked Sisters respectfully down at his feet.

“What say you, Valora?” Jabril looked around for objections from the crew and saw none. “Ravelle's the liar. Ravelle admits the crime is his; away with him and the curse is lifted fair. You'd be welcome to stay.”

“He swims, I swim,” Jean growled.

“He worth that much to you?”

“I don't have to bloody well explain myself.”

“So be it. That I respect,” said Jabril. “Time to go.”

“No,” shouted Locke as several sailors advanced, swords held at guard. “No! I have one thing to say first.”

“You had your say. Stormfather'll judge what else there is.”

“When I found you,” said Locke, “you were in a vault. Under a fucking
rock
. You were locked away beneath iron and stone! You were fit to die or to push oars for the archon's pleasure. You were dead and rotting, every last miserable one of you!”

“Heard this already,” said Jabril.

“Maybe I'm not a sea-officer,” said Locke. “Maybe I deserve this; maybe you're doing right to punish the man that's brought you this misfortune. But I am also the man who freed you.
I am the man who gave you any life you have
. You spit on that gift before the gods to do this to me!”

“You saying you want the arrows, then?” said Aspel, and the men around him laughed.

“No,” said Jabril, holding up his hands. “No. There's a point. This ain't a happy ship in the eyes of the gods, that's for bloody sure. Our luck is tight-drawn as it is, even once we're rid of him. He needs to die for the crimes he's done; for his lies and his ignorance and the men who won't see land again. But he did free us.” Jabril looked around and bit his lip before continuing. “We
do
owe him for that. I say we give them the boat.”

“We need that boat,” hollered Mazucca.

“Lots of boats in Port Prodigal,” said Streva. “Maybe we can take one as plunder on the way down there.”

“Aye, that and cats,” shouted another sailor.

“Open boat,” said Jabril. “No food, no water, says I. They go in as they are now. Let Iono take them as and when he will. What's the word of all?”

The word of all was another outburst of enthusiastic approval. Even Mazucca gave in and nodded.

“Just a longer swim, in the end,” said Locke.

“Well,” whispered Jean, “at least you talked them into that much.”

7

THE SHIP'S
boat was unlashed, hoisted out, and plopped over the starboard side into the deep blue waters of the Sea of Brass.

“They get oars, Jabril?” One of the sailors had been assigned the task of removing the water cask and rations from the boat, and he'd pulled out the oars as well.

“Think not,” said Jabril. “Iono moves them if he wants them moved. We leave them to float; that was the word.”

Parties of armed sailors lined up fore and aft to prod Locke and Jean toward the starboard entry port. Jabril followed close behind. When they reached the edge, Locke saw that the boat was tied up with one knotted line that would allow them to climb down.

“Ravelle,” said Jabril quietly. “You really hold with the Thirteenth? You really one of his divines?”

“Yeah,” said Locke. “It was the only honest blessing I could give for their sakes.”

“I suppose that makes sense. Spies, things like that.” Jabril slipped something cold beneath Locke's tunic, against the small of his back, sliding it precariously into the top of his breeches. Locke recognized the weight of one of the stilettos from his belt.

“Stormfather maybe takes you fast,” whispered Jabril, “or maybe he lets you float. Long fuckin' time. Until you decide you just plain had
enough
…you know?”

“Jabril,” said Locke, “…thank you. I, ah, wish I could have been a better captain.”

“I wish you'd been any kinda captain at all. Now get over the fuckin' side and be gone.”

So it was that Locke and Jean watched from the gently bobbing boat as the
Red Messenger
limped on, southwest by west under tattered sail, leaving them in the middle of nowhere under a midafternoon sun that Locke would have given ten thousand solari for just a day or two earlier.

One hundred yards, two hundred, three…their former ship slowly made way across the rippling sea, at first with what must have been half the crew gazing astern, watching. But soon enough they lost interest in the dead men in their wake. Soon enough they returned to the task of keeping their precious little wooden world from succumbing to its wounds.

Locke wondered who would inherit the stern cabin, Jean's hatchets, their unusual tools, and the five hundred solari stashed at the bottom of his personal chest—a mixture of their last funds and Stragos' financing.

Thieves prosper, he thought.

“Well, splendid,” he said, stretching his legs as best he could. He and Jean faced each other from opposite rowing benches of a boat built for six. “Once again we've engineered a brilliant escape from immediate peril, and stolen something of value to take with us. This boat must be worth two solari.”

“I just hope that whoever ends up with the Wicked Sisters bloody well chokes,” said Jean.

“What, on the hatchets?”

“No, on anything. Whatever's convenient. I should've thrown them out the cabin window rather than let someone else have them. Gods.”

“You know, Jabril slipped me a stiletto as I went off.”

Jean seemed to ponder the implications of this for a moment, then shrugged. “When a smaller boat comes along, at least we'll have a weapon to board and carry her.”

“Are you, ah, comfortable back there in the stern cabin?”

“I am,” said Jean. He got off the bench, slid sideways, and crammed himself into the stern with his back against the starboard gunwale. “Bit tight, but luxurious trimmings.”

“That's good,” said Locke, pointing to the middle of the boat. “Hope it doesn't get more cramped when I install the hanging garden and the library right about there.”

“Already took that into account.” Jean leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “Hanging garden can go in on top of my bathhouse.”

“Which can double as a temple,” said Locke.

“You think that necessary?”

“I do,” said Locke. “I daresay the two of us are going to be doing a hell of a lot of praying.”

They floated in silence for many minutes. Locke also closed his eyes, breathed deep of the tangy air, and listened to the faint whisper of the waves. The sun was a warm and welcome pressure on the top of his head, and this above all conspired to lull him into a half-dozing state as he sat. He looked within for some hint of anguish and found only a hollow numbness; he seemed to have relaxed into relief at this final collapse of all his plans. Nobody else to fool, no more secrets to keep, no duties required of him or Jean as they drifted, merely drifted, waiting for the gods to make their next whim known.

Jean's voice recalled him to the present after some unguessable interval had passed, and he blinked as he reopened his eyes to the bright gleam of sun on water.

“Locke,” said Jean, evidently repeating himself, “sail ho, three points off the starboard bow!”

“Ha-ha, Jean. That would be the
Red Messenger
, sailing away from us forever. Surely you remember her.”

“No,” said Jean, more insistent. “
Fresh
sail ho, three points off the starboard bow!”

Locke glanced over his right shoulder, squinting. The
Red Messenger
was still plainly visible, now about three-quarters of a mile distant. And there, off to the left of his former ship, hard to see at first against the bright fusion of sea and sky—yes, a dusty white square just cresting the horizon.

“I'll be damned,” said Locke. “Looks like our lads are going to have their first chance at some plunder.”

“If only it'd had the courtesy to show up yesterday!”

“I'll wager I would have screwed things up regardless. But…can you imagine those poor bastards grappling their prey, leaping over the rails, swords in hand, screaming, ‘Your cats! Give us all your gods-damned cats!'”

Jean laughed. “What a bloody mess we've unleashed. At least we'll have some entertainment. This'll be damn awkward with the
Messenger
in such a state. Maybe they'll come back for us and beg us to lend a hand.”

“They'd beg you, maybe,” said Locke.

As Locke watched, the
Messenger
's forecourse shuddered into existence, an unfolding square of white. Straining, he could just see tiny figures dashing to and fro on the deck and in the rigging. His former ship put her bow a touch to larboard, bringing the wind onto her larboard quarter.

“She's limping like a horse with a broken ankle,” said Jean. “Look, they won't trust the mainmast with any canvas. Can't say I blame them.” Jean scrutinized the scene for a few moments more. “Their new friend's coming up north-northwest, I think. If our lads sneak west and look harmless enough, maybe…otherwise, that new ship's got plenty of room to run west or south. If she's in any decent shape at all,
Messenger
'll never catch her.”

“Jean…,” said Locke, very slowly, a bit hesitant to trust his own naval judgment. “I don't…I don't think escape is anywhere on their minds. Look, they're straight on for the
Messenger
.”

The next few minutes confirmed this. Indeed, the newcomer's sails soon doubled in size, and Locke could see the faintest line of the hull beneath them. Whatever she was, she was angled well north of west, fit to cut straight across the path of the
Red Messenger
.

“And she's fast,” said Jean, clearly fascinated. “Look at her come on! I'd bet my own liver the
Messenger
's not even making four knots. She's doing twice that or more.”

“Maybe they just don't give a whit for the
Messenger
,” said Locke. “Maybe they can see she's wounded and they're just going to fly right past.”

“A ‘kiss my ass and fare-thee-well,'” said Jean. “Pity.”

The newcomer grew steadily; blurry shapes became a sleek dark hull, billowing sails, the thin lines of masts.

“Two masts,” said Jean. “Brig, flying
loads
of canvas.”

Locke felt an unexpected urgency; he tried to restrain his excitement as the
Messenger
plodded feebly to the southwest while the newcomer steadily gained on her. Now the strange vessel showed her starboard side to them. As Jean had said, she had two masts, as well as a swift low profile and a hull so black she gleamed.

A dark speck appeared in midair above her stern. It moved upward, expanded, and burst apart into a huge fluttering flag—a banner of solid crimson, bright as fresh-spilled blood.

“Oh, gods,” cried Locke. “You have to be fucking kidding!”

The newcomer raced on, foam-capped water surging at her bow, closing the gap with the
Red Messenger
with every passing second. Low white shapes appeared from behind her—boats crammed with the dark specks of sailors. The new ship swung round to the
Messenger
's lee like a hungry beast cutting off her prey's escape; meanwhile, her boats knifed across the gleaming water to launch their attack from windward. Whatever Jabril and his crew did to try and foil their entrapment, it wasn't enough; chorus after chorus of belligerent cheers echoed faintly across the water, and little black specks were soon swarming up the
Messenger
's sides.

“No!” Locke was unaware that he'd leapt to his feet until Jean pulled him back down hastily. “Oh, you bastards! You rotten, miserable, skulking bastards! You can't take my fucking ship—”

“Which was already taken,” said Jean.

“I come a thousand miles to shake your bloody hands,” Locke screamed, “and you show up two
hours
after they put us overboard!”

“Not even half that,” said Jean.

“Bloody fucking limp-cocked witless laggard
pirates
!”

“Thieves prosper,” said Jean, biting his knuckles as he snorted with laughter.

The battle, if it could be called that, didn't last five minutes. Someone on the quarterdeck brought the
Messenger
around, luffing straight into the wind, killing what little speed she'd had. All her sails were taken in, and she soon drifted gently with one of the marauder's boats tied up at her side. Another boat hurried back to the ship that had birthed it. That vessel, under a far lazier press of sail than it had set out to snatch up the
Messenger
, then came round on a starboard tack and began to bear down in the general direction of Locke and Jean—an ominous monster toying with its next tiny meal.