Red Seas Under Red Skies (53 page)

It was impossible to stay next to Jean; the press of Redeemers was too thick, the number of incoming blows too great. Locke was knocked down again by a falling body, and he rolled to his left, slashing blindly, frantically as he went. The deck and the sky spun around him until suddenly he was rolling into thin air.

The grating was off the main cargo hatch.

Desperately he checked himself, scrambling back to his right before he toppled in. A glimpse into the main-deck hold had revealed a trio of Redeemers there, too. He stumbled to his feet and was immediately attacked by another Jeremite; parrying slash after slash, he sidestepped left and tried to slip away from the edge of the cargo hatch. No good; a second antagonist appeared, blood-drenched spear at the ready.

Locke knew he'd never be able to fight or dodge the pair of them with an open grate behind his feet. He thought quickly. The flute's crew had been in the process of shifting a heavy barrel from the main-deck hold when the attack had come. That cask, four or five feet in diameter, hung in a netting above the mouth of the cargo hatch.

Locke lashed out wildly at his two opponents, aiming only to force them back. Then he spun on his heels and leapt for all he was worth. He struck the hanging cask with a head-jarring thud and clung to the netting, his legs kicking like those of a man treading water. The cask swung like a pendulum as he scrambled atop it.

From here, he briefly enjoyed a decent view of the action. More Orchids were pouring into the fray from the ship's larboard side, and Delmastro and Jean were pushing the main body of Redeemers back up the quarterdeck stairs. Locke's side of the deck was a tangled swirl of opponents; green cloths and bare heads above weapons of every sort.

Suddenly, the Jeremite with the spear was jabbing at him, and the blackened-steel head of the weapon bit wood inches from his leg. Locke flailed back with his saber, realizing that his suspended haven wasn't as safe as he'd hoped. There were shouts from below; the Redeemers in the hold had noticed him, and meant to do something about him.

It was up to him to do something crazy first.

He leapt up, holding fast to one of the lines by which the cask was suspended from a winding-tackle, and dodged another spear thrust. No good trying to cut all the lines leading down from the tackle. That could take minutes. He tried to remember the patterns of ropes and blocks Caldris had drilled into him. His eyes darted along the single taut line that fell from the winding-tackle to a snatch-block at one corner of the cargo hatch. Yes—that line led across the deck, disappearing beneath the throng of combatants. It would run to the capstan, and if it was cut…

Gritting his teeth, he gave the taut line a good slash with the forte of his blade, feeling the saber bite hemp. A thrown hatchet whizzed past his shoulder, missing by the width of his little finger. He slashed the line again, and again, driving the blade with all the force he could muster. At the fourth stroke, it unraveled with a snap, and the weight of the cask broke it clean in two. Locke rode the barrel down into the hold, his eyes squeezed firmly shut. Someone screamed, saving him the trouble of doing so himself.

The cask struck with a resounding crash. Locke's momentum smacked him down hard against its upper surface. His chin struck wood and he was tossed sideways, landing in an undignified heap on the deck. Warm, smelly liquid washed over him—beer. The cask was gushing it.

Locke climbed back to his feet, groaning. One Redeemer hadn't moved fast enough, and was splayed out beneath the cask, clearly dead. The other two had been knocked sideways by the impact, and were feeling around groggily for their weapons.

He stumbled over and slit their throats before they knew he was even back on his feet. It wasn't fighting, just thief's work, and he did it mechanically. Then he blinked and looked around for something to clean the blade on; an old and natural thief's habit that nearly got him killed.

A heavy dark shape splashed into the beer beside him. One of the Jeremites who'd been troubling him above, the one with the spear, had leapt the six or seven feet down into the hold. But the gushing beer was treacherous; the Redeemer's feet went out from under him as he landed, and he toppled onto his back. Coldly resigned, Locke drove his saber into the man's chest, then pried the spear from his dying hands.

“Undone by drink,” he whispered.

The fight continued above. For the moment, he was alone in the hold with his shoddy little victory.

Four dead, and he'd cheated every one, using luck and surprise and plain skullduggery to do what would have been impossible in a stand-up fight. Knowing that they would never have given or accepted quarter
should
have made it easier, but the wild abandon of a few minutes before had drained clean away. Orrin Ravelle was a fraud after all; he was plain Locke Lamora once again.

He threw up behind a pile of canvas and netting, using the spear to hold himself up until the heaving stopped.

“Gods
above
!”

Locke wiped his mouth as Jabril and a pair of Orchids slipped down through the cargo hatch, holding to the rim of the deck rather than leaping. They didn't seem to have caught him puking.

“Four of 'em,” continued Jabril. His tunic had been partly torn away above a shallow cut on his chest. “Fuck me, Ravelle. I thought
Valora
scared the piss out of me.”

Locke took a deep breath to steady himself. “Jerome. Is he all right?”

“Was a minute ago. Saw him and Lieutenant Delmastro fighting on the quarterdeck.”

Locke nodded, then gestured aft with his spear. “Stern cabin,” he said. “Follow me. Let's finish this.”

He led them down the length of the flute's main deck at a run, shoving unarmed, cowering crewfolk out of the way as he passed. The armored door to the stern cabin was shut, and behind it Locke could hear the sound of frantic activity. He pounded on the door.

“We know you're in there,” he yelled, and then turned to Jabril with a tired grin. “This seems awfully familiar, doesn't it?”

“You won't get through that door,” came a muffled shout from within.

“Give it some shoulder,” said Jabril.

“Let me try being terribly clever first,” said Locke. Then, raising his voice: “First point, this door may be armored, but your stern windows are glass. Second point, open this fucking door by the count of ten or I'll have every surviving crewman and woman put to death on the quarterdeck. You can listen while you're doing whatever it is you're doing in there.”

A pause; Locke opened his mouth to begin counting. Suddenly, with the ratcheting clack of heavy clockwork, the door creaked open and a short, middle-aged man in a long black jacket appeared.

“Please don't,” he said. “I surrender. I would have done it sooner, but the Redeemers wouldn't have it. I locked myself in after they chased me down here. Kill me if you like, but spare my crew.”

“Don't be stupid,” said Locke. “We don't kill anyone who doesn't fight back. Though I suppose it's nice to know you're not a complete asshole. Ship's master, I presume?”

“Antoro Nera, at your service.”

Locke grabbed him by his lapels and began dragging him toward the companionway. “Let's go on deck, Master Nera. I think we've dealt with your Redeemers. What the hell were they doing aboard, anyway? Passengers?”

“Security,” muttered Nera. Locke stopped in his tracks.

“Are you that fucking dim-witted, that you didn't know they'd go berserk the first time someone dangled a fight in front of their noses?”

“I didn't want them! The owners insisted. Redeemers work for nothing but food and passage. Owners thought…perhaps they'd scare off anyone looking for trouble.”

“A fine theory. Only works if you advertise their presence, though. We didn't know they were aboard until they were charging us in a fucking phalanx.”

Locke went up the companionway, dragging Nera behind him, followed by Jabril and the others. They emerged into the bright light of morning on the quarterdeck. One of the men was hauling down the flute's colors, and he was knee-deep in bodies.

There were at least a dozen of them. Redeemers, mostly, with their green head-cloths fluttering and their expressions strangely satisfied. But here and there were unfortunate crewfolk, and at the head of the stairs a familiar face—Aspel, the front of his chest a bloody ruin.

Locke glanced around frantically and sighed when he saw Jean, apparently untouched, crouched near the starboard rail. Lieutenant Delmastro was at his feet, her hair unbound, blood running down her right arm. As Locke watched, Jean tore a strip of cloth from the bottom of his own tunic and began binding one of her wounds.

Locke felt a pang that was half relief and half melancholy; usually it was
him
that Jean was picking up in bloody pieces at the end of a fight. Ducking away from Jean had been a matter of split-second necessity in the heat of the struggle. He realized that he was strangely disquieted that Jean hadn't followed him, relentlessly at his heels, looking after him as always.

Don't be an ass, he thought. Jean had his own bloody problems.

“Jerome,” he said.

Jean's head darted around, and his lips nearly formed an “L” sound before he got himself under control. “Orrin! You're a mess! Gods, are you all right?”

A mess? Locke looked down and discovered that nearly every inch of his clothing was soaked in blood. He ran a hand over his face. What he'd taken for sweat or beer came away red on his palm.

“None of it's mine,” he said. “I think.”

“I was about to come looking for you,” said Jean. “Ezri…Lieutenant Delmastro…”

“I'll be fine,” she groaned. “Bastard tried to hit me with a mizzenmast. Just knocked the wind out of me.”

Locke spotted one of the huge brass-studded clubs lying on the deck near her, and just beyond it, a dead Redeemer with one of Delmastro's characteristic sabers planted in his throat.

“Lieutenant Delmastro,” said Locke, “I've brought the ship's master. Allow me to introduce Antoro Nera.”

Delmastro pushed Jean's hands away and crawled past him for a better view. Lines of blood ran from cuts on her lip and forehead.

“Master Nera. Well met. I represent the side that's still standing. Appearances to the contrary.” She grinned and wiped at the blood above her eyes. “I'll be responsible for arranging larceny once we've secured your ship, so don't piss me off. Speaking of which, what ship is this?”

“
Kingfisher
,” said Nera.

“Cargo and destination?”

“Tal Verrar, with spices, wine, turpentine, and fine woods.”

“That and a fat load of Jeremite Redeemers. No, shut up. You can explain later. Gods, Ravelle, you
have
been busy.”

“Too fucking right,” said Jabril, slapping him on the back. “He killed four of them himself in the hold. Rode a beer cask down on one, and must've fought the other three straight up.” Jabril snapped his fingers. “Like
that
.”

Locke sighed, and felt his cheeks warming. He reached up and put a bit of the blood back where he'd found it.

“Well,” said Delmastro, “I won't say that I'm not surprised, but I am pleased. You're not fit to tend so much as a fishing boat, Ravelle, but you can lead boarding parties whenever you like. I think we just redeemed about half of Jerem.”

“You're too kind,” said Locke.

“Can you get this ship into order for me? Clear the decks of crewfolk and put them all under guard at the forecastle?”

“I can. Will she be all right, Jerome?”

“She's been smacked around and cut up a bit, but—”

“I've had worse,” she said. “I've had worse, and I've certainly given it back. You can go with Ravelle if you like.”

“I—”

“Don't make me hit you. I'll be fine.”

Jean stood up and came over to Locke, who shoved Nera gently toward Jabril.

“Jabril, would you escort our new friend to the forecastle while Jerome and I scrape up the rest of his crew?”

“Aye, be pleased to.”

Locke led Jean down the quarterdeck stairs, into the tangle of bodies amidships. More Redeemers, more crewfolk…and five or six of the men he'd pulled out of Windward Rock three weeks before. He was uncomfortably aware that the survivors all seemed to be staring at him. He caught snatches of their conversation:

“…laughing, he was…”

“Saw it as I came up the side. Charged them all by himself…”

“Never seen the like.” That was Streva, whose left arm looked broken. “Laughed and laughed. Fucking fearless.”

“…‘the gods send your doom, motherfuckers.' That's what he told them. I heard it….”

“They're right, you know,” whispered Jean. “I've seen you do some brave and crazy shit, but that was…that was—”

“It was all crazy and none brave. I was out of my fucking head, get it? I was so scared shitless I didn't know what I was doing.”

“But in the hold below—”

“I dropped a cask on one,” said Locke. “Two more got their throats slit while they were still dumb. The last was kind enough to slip in beer and make it easy. Same as always, Jean. I'm no bloody warrior.”

“But now they think you are. You pulled it off.”

They found Mal, slumped against the mainmast, unmoving. His hands were curled around the sword buried in his stomach, as though he were trying to keep it safe. Locke sighed.

“I have what you might call mixed feelings about that right now,” he said.

Jean knelt down and pushed Mal's eyelids closed. “I know what you mean.” He paused, seeming to weigh his words before continuing. “We have a serious problem.”

“Really? Us, problems? What
ever
could you mean?”

“These people are our people. These people are
thieves
. Surely you see it too. We can't sell them out to Stragos.”