Red Seas Under Red Skies (48 page)

“Most of them are still suffering from long enclosure. Poor sustenance, little exercise, and nervous malaise. They've been eating better since leaving Tal Verrar, but they're exhausted and battered. A handful are in what I'd call decent health. An equal number are not fit for any work at all until I say otherwise. I won't bend on that…Captain.”

“I won't ask you to. Disease?”

“Miraculously absent, if you mean fevers and contagions. Also little by way of sexual consequences. They've been locked away from women for months, and most of them are Eastern Therin. Very little inclination to lie with one another, you know.”

“Their loss. If I have further need of you—”

“I'll be in my cabin, obviously. And mind your children. They appear to be steering the ship.”

Locke stared at the woman as she stamped away. One of her feet had the hollow, heavy sound of wood, and she walked with the aid of a strange cane made of stacked white cylinders. Ivory? No—the spine of some unfortunate creature, fused together with shining seams of metal.

Drakasha and Delmastro turned toward the ship's wheel, a doubled affair like the one aboard the
Messenger
, currently tended by an unusually tall young man who was all sharp, gangling angles. At either side stood Paolo and Cosetta, not actually touching the wheel but mimicking his movements and giggling.

“Mumchance,” said Drakasha as she stepped over and pulled Cosetta away from the wheel, “where's Gwillem?”

“Craplines.”

“I
told
him he was on sprat duty,” said Ezri.

“I'll have his fucking eyes,” said Drakasha.

Mumchance seemed unruffled. “Man's gotta piss, Captain.”

“Gotta piss,” mumbled Cosetta.

“Hush.” Zamira reached around Mumchance and snatched Paolo back from the wheel as well. “Mum, you know full well they're not to touch the wheel or the rails.”

“They wasn't touching the wheel, Captain.”

“
Nor
are they to dance at your side, cling to your legs, or in any other way assist you in navigating the vessel. Clear?”

“Savvy.”

“Paolo,” said Drakasha, “take your sister back to the cabin and wait for me there.”

“Yes,” said the boy, his voice as faint as the sound of two pieces of paper sliding together. He took Cosetta's hand and began to lead her aft.

Drakasha hurried forward once again, past small parties of crewfolk working or eating, all of whom acknowledged her passing with respectful nods and waves. Ezri pushed Locke and Jean along in her wake.

Near the chicken coops, Drakasha crossed paths with a rotund but sprightly Vadran a few years older than herself. The man was wearing a dandified black jacket covered in tarnished brass buckles, and his blond-gray hair was pulled into a billowing ponytail that hung to the seat of his breeches. Drakasha grabbed him by the front of his tunic with her left hand.

“Gwillem, what part of ‘watch the children for a few minutes' did Ezri fail to make clear?”

“I left them with Mum, Captain—”

“They were your problem, not his.”

“Well, you trust him to steer the ship, why not trust him to—”

“I do trust him with my loves, Gwillem. I just have a peculiar attachment to having orders followed.”

“Captain,” said Gwillem in a low voice, “I had to drop some brown on the blue, eh? I could've brought them to the craplines, but I doubt you would have approved of the education they'd have received.”

“Hold it in, for Iono's sake. I only took a few minutes. Now go pack your things.”

“My things?”

“Take the last boat over to the
Messenger
and join the prize crew.”

“Prize crew? Captain, you know I'm not much good—”

“I want that ship eyeballed and inventoried, bowsprit to taffrail. Account for everything. When I haggle with the Shipbreaker over it, I want to know exactly how far the bastard is trying to cheat me.”

“But—”

“I'll expect your written tally when we rendezvous in Port Prodigal. We both know there was hardly any loot to sling over and count today. Get over there and earn your share.”

“Your will, Captain.”

“My quartermaster,” Zamira said when Gwillem had trudged away, swearing. “Not bad, really. Just prefers to let work sort of
elude
him whenever possible.”

At the bow of the ship was the forecastle deck, raised perhaps four and a half feet above the weather deck, with broad stairs on either side. In between those stairs a wide, uncovered opening led to a dark area that was half compartment and half crawlspace beneath the forecastle. It was seven or eight yards long by Locke's estimate.

The forecastle deck and stairs were crowded with most of the
Red Messenger
's men, under the casual guard of half a dozen of Zamira's armed crewfolk. Jabril, sitting next to Aspel at the front of the crowd, seemed deeply amused to see Locke and Jean again. The men behind him began to mutter.

“Shut up,” said Ezri, taking a position between Zamira and the newcomers. Locke, not quite knowing what to do, stood off to one side with Jean and waited for instructions. Drakasha cleared her throat.

“Some of us haven't met. I'm Zamira Drakasha, captain of the
Poison Orchid
. Lend an ear. Jabril told me that you took ship in Tal Verrar thinking you were to be pirates. Anyone having second thoughts?”

Most of the
Messenger
's men shook their heads or quietly muttered denials.

“Good. I
am
what your friend Ravelle pretended to be,” Drakasha said, reaching over and putting one of her arms around Locke's shoulders. She smiled theatrically, and several of the
Messenger
's less-battered men chuckled. “I have no lords or masters. I fly the red flag when I'm hungry and a false flag when I'm not. I have one port of call: Port Prodigal in the Ghostwinds. Nowhere else will have me. Nowhere else is
safe
. You live on this deck, you share that peril. I know some of you don't understand. Think of the world. Think of
everywhere in the world
that isn't this ship, save one rotten little speck of misery in the blackest asshole of nowhere. That's what you're renouncing. Everything. Everyone. Everywhere.”

She released Locke, and seemed to note the somber expressions of the
Messenger
's crew with approval. She pointed at Ezri.

“My first mate, Ezri Delmastro. We call her ‘lieutenant' and so do you. She says it, I back it. Never presume otherwise.

“You've met our ship's physiker. Scholar Treganne tells me you could be worse and you could be better. There'll be rest for those that need it. I can't use you if you're in no condition to work.”

“Are we being invited to join your crew, Captain Draksaha?” asked Jabril.

“You're being offered a chance,” said Ezri. “That's all. After this, you're not prisoners, but you're not free men. You're what we call the scrub watch. You sleep here, in what we call the undercastle. Worst place on the ship, more or less. If there's a filthy shit job to be had, you'll do it. If we're short blankets or clothes, you'll go without. You're last for meals and drinks.”

“Every member of my crew can give you an order,” said Drakasha, picking up as Ezri finished. Locke had a notion that they'd honed this routine together over time. “And every one of them will expect to be obeyed. We've no formal defaults; cop wise or slack off and someone will just beat the hell out of you. Raise enough fuss that I have to notice and I'll throw you over the side. Think I'm kidding? Ask someone who's been here a while.”

“How long do we have to be on the scrub watch?” asked one of the younger men near the back of the crowd.

“Until you prove yourselves,” said Drakasha. “We raise anchor in a few minutes and sail for Port Prodigal. Anyone who wants to leave when we get there, be gone. You won't be sold; this isn't a slaving ship. But you'll get no pay save drink and rations. You'll walk away with empty pockets, and in Prodigal, slavery might be kinder. At least someone would give a shit that you lived or died.

“If we cross paths with another sail on the way down,” she continued, “I'll give thought to taking her. And if we fly a red flag, that's your chance. You'll go in first; you'll board the prize before any of us. If there's fire or bows or razor nets or gods-know-what, you'll taste it first and bleed first. If you survive, grand. You're crew. If you refuse, we dump you in Port Prodigal. I only keep a scrub watch on hand as long as I have to.”

She nodded to Ezri.

“As of now,” said Delmastro, “you can have the forecastle and the weather deck far back as the mainmast. Don't go below or touch a tool without instructions. Touch a weapon, or try to take one from one of the crew, and I guarantee you'll die on the instant. We're touchy about that.

“You want to get cozy with a member of the crew, or they offer to get cozy with you, do what you will as long as you're off duty and you stay off the bloody weather deck. Out here, what's given is given. You try to take something by force, you'd better pray you die in the attempt, because we're touchy about that, too.”

Zamira took over again and pointed at Locke and Jean. “Ravelle and Valora will be rejoining you.” A few of the men grumbled, and Zamira rested her hands on her saber hilts. “Mind your fucking manners. You put them over the side and vowed to let Iono be their judge. I showed up about an hour later. That settles that; anyone who thinks they know better than the Lord of the Grasping Waters can jump over the rail and take it up with Him in person.”

“They're scrub watch like the rest of you,” said Ezri.

Still, the men didn't seem particularly enthusiastic, and Zamira cleared her throat. “This is an equal-shares ship.”

That
got their attention.

“Ship's quartermaster goes by the name of Gwillem. He counts the take. Thirty percent goes to the ship so we don't slink about with rotting canvas and cordage. Rest gets split evenly, one share per beating heart.

“You don't touch a centira from what we already took out of your old ship. No apologies there. But if you get your chance on the way to Port Prodigal, and you're crew when we sell the
Messenger
off to the Shipbreaker, you'll get a share of that, and that'll set you up nicely.
If
you're crew.”

Locke had to admire her for that; it was a sensible policy, and she'd brought it into the lecture at a moment calculated to deflect dissension and worry. Now the
Red Messenger
wouldn't just be an unhappy memory vanishing over the horizon in the hands of a prize crew; it might be a waiting pile of silver.

Zamira turned and headed aft, leaving Delmastro to finish the show. As murmurs of conversation began to rise, the petite lieutenant yelled, “Shut up! That's the business, then. There'll be food in a while and a half-ration of beer to settle you down some. Tomorrow I'll start sorting those of you with particular skills and introducing you to some work.

“There's
one
last thing the captain didn't mention.” Ezri paused for several seconds and made sure that everyone was listening attentively. “The younger Drakashas. Captain has a boy and a girl. Mostly they're in her cabin, but sometimes they've got the run of the ship. What they are to you is
sacred
. I mean this, more than I mean anything else I've said tonight. Say so much as an
unkind word
to them and I'll nail your cock to the foremast and leave you there to die of thirst. The crew thinks of them as family. If you have to break your neck to keep them safe, then it's in your best interest to break your bloody neck.”

Delmastro seemed to take everyone's silence as a sign that they were duly impressed, and she nodded. A moment later, Drakasha's voice sounded from the quarterdeck, magnified by a speaking trumpet: “Up anchor!”

Delmastro lifted a whistle that hung around her neck on a leather cord and blew it three times. “At the waist,” she hollered in an impossibly loud voice, “ship capstan bars! Stand by to raise anchor! Scrub watch to the waist, as able!”

At her urging, most of the
Messenger
's former crew rose and began shuffling toward the
Orchid
's waist. A large work party was already gathering there, between the foremast and the chicken coops, fitting long capstan bars in their places by lantern light. A woman was scattering sand on the deck from a bucket. Locke and Jean fell in with Jabril, who smiled wryly.

“Evening, Ravelle. You look a bit…demoted.”

“I'm happy enough,” said Locke. “But honestly, Jabril, I leave the
Messenger
in your hands for what, an hour? And look what happens.”

“It's a bloody improvement,” said someone behind Locke.

“Oh, I agree,” said Locke, deciding that the next few days might be infinitely more pleasant for everyone if Ravelle were to swallow anything resembling pride over his brief career as a captain. “I agree with all my gods-damned heart.”

Ezri shoved her way through the gathering crowd and vaulted atop the capstan barrel; it was wide enough that she could sit cross-legged upon it, which she did. She blew her whistle twice more and yelled, “Rigged below?”

“Rigged below,” rose an answering cry from one of the hatches.

“Take your places,” said Ezri. Locke squeezed in next to Jean and leaned against one of the long wooden bars; this capstan was wider than the one aboard the
Messenger
, and an extra twenty or so sailors could easily crowd in to work it. Every place was filled in seconds.

“Right,” said Ezri, “heave! Slow to start! Heave! Slow to start! Feet and shoulders! Faster, now—make the little bitch spin round and round! You know you want to!”

Locke heaved at his bar, feeling the grit shift and crunch beneath him, poking uncomfortably at the sensitive spots between his toes and the balls of his bare feet. But nobody else seemed to be complaining, so he bit his lip and bore it. Ezri was indeed spinning round and round; clank by clank, the anchor cable was coming in. A party formed at the larboard bow to secure it. After several minutes of shoving, Ezri brought the capstan party to a halt with one short blast on her whistle.