Red Seas Under Red Skies (61 page)

Miles of ancient rain forest recede into the night behind it; not a speck of light burns anywhere within that grim expanse.

The broad harbor, enclosed on all sides, is uncommonly friendly to ships once they slip through either of the arduous passages that bring them from the sea. There are no reefs, no smaller islands, no navigational hazards marring the sandy white bottom of the bay. At the eastern end of town the water shallows to waist depth, while in the west even heavy ships may all but kiss the shore and keep eight or nine fathoms beneath their keels.

A forest of masts rocks gently above these depths, a floating hodgepodge of docks, boats, working ships, and hulls in every state of disrepair. There are two loosely defined anchorages serving Port Prodigal—first, the Graveyard, where float the hundreds of hulls and wrecks that will never move on the open sea again. East of that, claiming all the larger, newer docks, lies the Hospital, so-called because its patients may yet live.

6

A BELL
began tolling, its slow clang echoing off the water, as soon as the
Poison Orchid
emerged from the Parlor Passage.

Locke stared over the ship's larboard rail, toward the lights of the city and their rippling reflections on the bay.

“Harbor watch'll ring that damn thing until we drop anchor.” Jabril had taken note of his curiosity and taken the rail beside him. “Gotta let everyone know they're on the job so they keep getting paid their liquor ration.”

“You spend much time here, Jabril?”

“Born here. Prison in Tal Verrar is what I got the one time I tried to see some other oceans.”

Dropping anchor in Prodigal Bay had none of the ceremony Locke had seen elsewhere; no shore pilots, no customs officers, not even a single curious fisherman. And, to his surprise, Drakasha didn't take the
Orchid
all the way in. They settled about half a mile offshore, furled sails, and kept their lanterns burning.

“Drop a boat to larboard,” ordered Drakasha, peering at the city and its anchorages through her glass. “Then rig razor nets at the starboard. Keep lanterns burning. Dismiss Blue watch below but have sabers ready at the masts. Del, get Malakasti, Dantierre, Big Konar, and Rask.”

“Your will, Captain.”

After helping a work party heave one of the ship's larger boats over the side, Locke approached Drakasha on the quarterdeck and found her still studying the town through her glass.

“I take it you have reason for caution, Captain?”

“We've been out for a few weeks,” said Drakasha, “and things change. I've got a big crew and a big ship, but neither of them is the biggest there is.”

“Do you see something that makes you nervous?”

“Not nervous. Curious. Looks like most of us are home for once. See that line of ships, at the eastern docks, closest to us? Four of the council captains are in town. Five, now that I'm back.” She lowered her glass and looked sidelong at him. “Plus two or three independent traders, near as I can tell.”

“I really hope it doesn't come to that,” he said quietly.

At that moment Lieutenant Delmastro returned to the quarterdeck, armed and armored, with four sailors in tow.

Malakasti, a thin woman with more tattoos than words in her vocabulary, had a shipwide reputation as a knife fighter. Dantierre was a bearded, balding Verrari who favored tattered nobleman's silks; he'd gone outlaw after a long career as a professional duelist. Big Konar, true to his name, was the largest slab of human flesh aboard the
Orchid
. And Rask—well, Rask was a type that Locke recognized almost immediately, a murderer's murderer. Drakasha, like many
garristas
back in Camorr, would keep him on a short leash, and give him his head only when she needed blood on the wall.
Lots
of blood on the wall.

A brutal crew, none of them young and none of them new to Drakasha's command. Locke pondered this while all hands were briefly mustered at the waist.

“Utgar has the ship,” Drakasha announced. “We're not putting in tonight. I'm taking Del and a shore party to sound out the town. If all's well, we'll have a busy few days…and we'll start divvying up the shares tomorrow evening. Try not to gamble it all away to your watchmates before it's even in your hands, eh?

“In the meantime, Red watch, mind the ship. Razor nets on starboard stay up until we come back. Post lookouts up every mast and keep an eye on the waterline. Blue watch, some of you sleep near the arms lockers if you're so inclined. Keep daggers and clubs at hand.” To Utgar, she said more quietly, “Double guard on my cabin door all night.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Drakasha vanished into her cabin for a few moments. She reemerged in her Elderglass mosaic vest, with her sabers in fine jeweled scabbards, gleaming emeralds in her ears, and gold rings over the black leather gloves on her hands. Locke and Jean confronted her together, as unobtrusively as they could.

“Ravelle, I do not have time—”

“Captain,” said Locke, “you've put together a bruising crew because you're out to scare someone who might give you trouble, haven't you? And if they're too stupid to take a hint, you want people who can end things quick. I strongly,
strongly
suggest that Jerome would serve you well on both counts.”

“I…hmmm.” She stared at Jean, as though only just noticing the width of his shoulders and upper arms. “That might just add the finishing touch. All right, Valora, you fancy a short night out?”

“I do,” said Jean. “But I work best as part of a team. Orrin is just the man to—”

“You two think you're
so
clever,” said Drakasha. “But—”

“I mean it,” said Jean hurriedly. “Humble apologies. But you've seen what he does. You'll have a pile of strongarms at your back; bring him for…situations unforeseen.”

“Tonight is delicate business,” said Drakasha. “Misstepping in Port Prodigal after midnight is like pissing on an angry snake. I need—”

“Ahem,” said Locke. “Originally, we're from Camorr.”

“Be on the boat in five minutes,” said Drakasha.

7

DRAKASHA TOOK
the bow, Delmastro the stern, and everyone else an oar. At a stately pace they scudded across the calm surface of the bay.

“At least that jackass finally stopped ringing the bell,” muttered Jean. He had taken a spot on the last rowing bench, next to Big Konar, so he could chat with Ezri. She was trailing one of her hands in the water.

“Is that wise?” Jean asked.

“What, fiddling with the water?” Ezri hooked a thumb over her shoulder in the direction of the Parlor Passage outlet. “You can't see them by night, but at the entrances to the bay there are rows of huge white stones set across the bottom. Regular lines of them.”

“Eldren stones,” muttered Konar.

“They don't bother us,” said Ezri, “but nothing else will pass them. Not one single thing lives in this bay; you can swim at dusk with bloody cuts on your feet and nothing will come along for a taste.”

“But not too close to the docks. Piss,” said Konar, almost apologetically.

“Well, damn,” said Jean. “That sounds nice.”

“Sure, I guess,” said Ezri. “Makes fishing a pain in the ass. Little boats crowd the Trader's Gate passage and muck up the works there more than usual. Speaking of mucking up the works…”

“Mmm?”

“I don't see the
Red Messenger
anywhere.”

“Ah.”

“But she was crawling like a snail,” she said. “And we do have some interesting company in her place.”

“Such as?”

“See that first row of ships? Starboard to larboard, that's
Osprey
, Pierro Strozzi's lugger. His crew's tiny and so's his ambition, but he could sail a barrel through a hurricane. Next to that,
Regal Bitch
, captain Chavon Rance. Rance is a pain in the ass. Has a real temper. Next is
Draconic
, Jacquelaine Colvard's brig. She's reasonable, and she's been out here longer than anyone.

“That big three-master on the far end is the
Dread Sovereign
, Jaffrim Rodanov's lady. Nasty piece of work. Last I saw she was on the beach getting careened, but now she looks ready for sea.”

With six people pulling at the oars, they made short work of the trip. In just a few moments they were alongside a crumbling stone jetty. As Jean secured his oar, he spied a man's corpse bobbing gently in the water.

“Ah,” said Ezri. “Poor bastard. That's the mark of a lively night in these parts.”

Drakasha's shore party tied the boat to the very end of the jetty and went up as though boarding an enemy vessel, with wary hearts and hands near their weapons.

“Holy gods,” exclaimed a mostly toothless drunk cradling a wineskin in the middle of the jetty. “It's Drakasha, isn't it?”

“It is. Who are you?”

“Banjital Vo.”

“Well,” said Drakasha, “Banjital Vo, I'm making you responsible for the safety of the boat we just tied up.”

“But…I—”

“If it's here when we come back, I'll give you a Verrari silver. If anything's happened to it, I'll ask around for you, and when I find you I'll pull your gods-damned eyes out.”

“I'll…I'll keep it like it were my own.”

“No,” said Drakasha, “keep it like it's
mine
.”

She led them off the jetty and up a gently sloping sand path bordered by canvas tents, roofless log cabins, and partially collapsed stone buildings. Jean could hear the snores of sleeping people within those decrepit structures, plus the soft bleat of goats, the growls of mongrel dogs, and the flutter of agitated chickens. A few cookfires had burned down to coals, but there were no lanterns or alchemical lights hung out anywhere on this side of town.

A pungent stream of piss and night soil was trickling down the right-hand side of the path, and Jean stepped carefully to avoid it, as well as a sprawled corpse damming the flow about fifty yards up from the jetty. The occasional semilucid drunk or pipe smoker stared at them from various nooks and shadows, but they weren't spoken to until they crested a rise and found stones beneath their feet once again.

“Drakasha,” shouted a corpulent man in leathers with blackened-iron studs, “welcome back to civilization!” The man carried a dim lantern in one hand and a bronze-ringed club in the other. Behind him was a taller fellow, scruffy and potbellied, armed with a long oak staff.

“Handsome Marcus,” said Drakasha. “Gods, you get uglier every time I come back. Like someone's slowly sculpting an ass out of a human face. Who's the new charmer?”

“Guthrin. Wise lad decided to give up sailing and join the rest of us big swinging cocks in the glamorous life.”

“Yeah? Well,” Drakasha said, holding out a closed fist and shaking it so that the coins inside clinked against one another, “I found these in the road. They belong to you?”

“I got a happy home for 'em right here. See now, Guthrin, that's the style. Show this lady some favor and she returns the compliment. Fruitful voyage, Captain?”

“Belly so full we can't swim anymore, Marcus.”

“Good on you, Captain. You'll want to hear from the Shipbreaker, then?”

“Nobody
wants
to hear from that waste of a working asshole, but if he wants to open his purse and bend over, I've got a little something in wood and canvas for his collection.”

“I'll pass the word. You in for the night?”

“Toehold, Marcus. Just here to fly the flag.”

“Fine idea.” He glanced around briefly, and then his voice grew more serious. “Chavon Rance has the high table at the Crimson. Just so you can look all-knowing when you walk in the door.”

“Obliged to you.”

When the two men had strolled on their way down the path toward the jetty, Jean turned to Ezri. “Guards of some sort?”

“Maintainers,” she said. “More like a gang. Sixty or seventy of them, and they're what we have for order around here. Captains pay them a little out of every load they bring in, and they beat the rest of their living out of public nuisances. You can pretty much do as you like, long as you hide the bodies and don't burn anything down or wake up half the city. Do that and the Maintainers come out to do a bit of maintaining.”

“So what's ‘flying the flag,' exactly?”

“Gotta play these games sometimes,” said Ezri. “Let everyone in Prodigal know that Zamira's back, that she's got a hold full of swag, that she'll kick their heads in for looking at her cross-eyed. You know? Especially her brother and sister captains.”

“Ah. I'm with you.”

They entered the city proper; here, at least, were the lights they'd seen from out in the bay, pouring from open windows and doors on both sides of the street. The buildings here had started as respectable stone homes and shops, but time and mischief had marked their faces. Broken windows were covered over with planking from ships or scraps of tattered sailcloth. Many of the houses sprouted leaning wooden additions that looked unsafe to approach, let alone live in; others grew wattle-and-daub third or fourth stories like mushrooms from their old roofs.

Jean felt a sudden pang of grudging nostalgia. Drunkards lying senseless in the alleys. Larcenous children eyeing their party from the shadows. Maintainers in long leather coats thumping some poor bastard senseless behind a cart with no wheels. The sounds of swearing, argument, laughter, and ale sickness pouring from every open window and door…This place was, if not quite a fraternal relation to Camorr, at least a first cousin.

“Orchids,” hollered someone from a second-story window. “Orchids!”

Zamira acknowledged the drunken shout with a casual wave, and turned right at a muddy crossroads. From the dark mouth of an alley a heavyset man stumbled, wearing nothing but soiled breeches. He had the glassy, unfocused eyes of a Jeremite powder-smoker, and in his right hand was a serrated knife the length and width of Jean's forearm.