The Gentleman Bastard Series 3-Book Bundle: The Lies of Locke Lamora, Red Seas Under Red Skies, The Republic of Thieves (124 page)

Only one of these cells was actually occupied; several dozen men lay sleeping in the
pale green light of barred alchemical globes set high on the walls. The air in here
was positively rank, dense with the odors of unclean bedding, urine, and stale food.
Faint tendrils of mist curled around the prisoners. A few wary pairs of eyes tracked
Locke and Jean as they stepped up to the cell door.

Locke nodded to Jean, and the bigger man began to pound his fist against the bars
of the door. The clamor was sharp, echoing intolerably
from the dripping walls of the vault. Disturbed prisoners rose from their dirty pallets,
swearing and hollering.

“Are you men comfortable in there?” Locke shouted to be heard above the din. Jean
ceased his pounding.

“We’d be lots more comfortable with a nice sweet Verrari captain in here for us to
fuck sideways,” said a prisoner near the door.

“I have no patience to speak of,” said Locke, pointing at the door he and Jean had
come through. “If I walk back out that door, I won’t be coming back.”

“Piss off, then, and let us sleep,” said a scarecrow of a man in a far corner of the
cell.

“And if I won’t be coming back,” said Locke, “then none of you poor bastards will
ever find out why vaults one and three have prisoners in every cell … while
this
one is completely empty save for yourselves.”

That got their attention. Locke smiled.

“That’s better. My name is Orrin Ravelle. Until a few minutes ago, I was a captain
in the navy of Tal Verrar. And the reason you’re here is because
I selected you
. Every last one of you.
I
selected you, and then I forged the orders that got you assigned to an empty cell
vault.”

“I CHOSE forty-four prisoners, originally,” said Stragos. They stared at Windward
Rock in the light of the morning sun. A boat of blue-coated soldiers was approaching
it in the distance, presumably to relieve the current shift of guards. “I had the
second cell vault cleared, except for them. All the orders signed ‘Ravelle’ are plausible,
but upon scrutiny, the signs of forgery will become evident. I can use that later
as a plausible excuse to arrest several clerks whose loyalties aren’t … straightforward
enough for my taste.”

“Efficient,” said Locke.

“Yes.” Stragos continued, “These prisoners are all prime seamen, taken from ships
that were impounded for various reasons. Some have been in custody for a few years.
Many are actually former crewmen of your
Red Messenger
, lucky not to be executed along with their officers. Some of them might even have
past experience at piracy.”

“Why keep prisoners at the Rock?” asked Jean. “In general, I mean?”

“Oar fodder,” answered Caldris. “Handy thing to keep on hand. War breaks out, they’ll
be offered full pardons if they agree to work as galley rowers for the duration. The
Rock tends to have a couple galleys’ worth, most of the time.”

“Caldris is entirely correct,” said Stragos. “Now, as I said, some of those men have
been in there for several years, but none of them have ever had to endure conditions
like those of the past month. I have had them deprived, of everything from clean bedding
to regular meals. The guards have been cruel, disturbing their sleeping hours with
loud noises and buckets of cold water. I daresay by now that there isn’t a man among
them that doesn’t hate Windward Rock, hate Tal Verrar, and hate
me
. Personally.”

Locke nodded slowly. “And that’s why you expect them to greet Ravelle as their savior.”

“YOU’RE THE one responsible for shoving us into this hell, you fuckin’ Verrari ass-licker?”

One of the prisoners stepped up to the bars and clutched them; the depredations of
the cell vault had yet to whittle away a build frighteningly close to that of the
heroic statuary of old. Locke guessed he was a recent arrival; his muscles looked
carved from witchwood. His skin and hair were black enough to shrug off the pale green
light, as though in disdain.

“I’m the one responsible for moving you to this vault,” said Locke. “I didn’t lock
you up in the first place. I didn’t arrange for the treatment you’ve been receiving.”

“
Treatment’s
a fancy fuckin’ word for it.”

“What’s your name?”

“Jabril.”

“Are you in charge?”

“Of what?” Some of the man’s anger seemed to ebb, transmuting to tired resignation.
“Nobody’s in fuckin’ charge behind iron bars,
Captain
Ravelle. We piss where we sleep. We don’t keep bloody muster rolls or duty shifts.”

“You men are all sailors,” said Locke.

“Was sailors,” said Jabril.

“I know what you are. You wouldn’t be here otherwise. Think about this—thieves get
let out. They go to West Citadel, they work at hard labor, they slave until they rupture
or get pardoned. But even they get to see the sky. Even their cells have windows.
Debtors are free to go when their debts are paid. Prisoners of war go home when the
war’s over. But you poor bastards … you’re penned up here against need. You’re cattle.
If there’s a war, you’ll be chained to oars, and if there’s no war … well.”

“There’s always war,” said Jabril.

“Seven years since the last one,” said Locke. He stepped up to the bars just across
from Jabril and looked him in the eyes. “Maybe seven years again. Maybe never. You
really want to grow old in this vault, Jabril?”

“What’s the bloody alternative … Captain?”

“Some of you came from a ship,” said Locke. “Impounded recently. Your captain tried
to smuggle in a nest of stiletto wasps.”

“The
Fortunate Venture
, aye,” said Jabril. “We was promised high heaps of gold for that job.”

“Fucking things killed eight men on the voyage,” said another prisoner. “We thought
we’d inherit their shares.”

“Turns out they was lucky,” said Jabril. “They didn’t have to take no share of this
gods-damned place.”

“The
Fortunate Venture
is riding at anchor in the Sword Marina,” said Locke. “She’s been rechristened the
Red Messenger
. Refurbished, resupplied, careened, and smoked. She’s been prettied up. The archon
means to take her into his service.”

“Good for the bloody archon.”

“I’m to command her,” said Locke. “She’s at my disposal. I have the keys, as it were.”

“What the fuck do you want, then?”

“It’s half past midnight,” said Locke, lowering his voice to a stage whisper that
echoed dramatically to the back of the cell. “Morning relief won’t arrive for more
than six hours. And every guard on Windward Rock is … currently … unconscious.”

The entire cell was full of wide eyes. Men heaved themselves up from their sleeping
pallets and pressed closer to the bars, forming an unruly but attentive crowd.

“I am leaving Tal Verrar tonight,” said Locke. “This is the last time I will ever
wear this uniform. I am quits with the archon and everything he stands for. I mean
to take the
Red Messenger
, and for that I need a crew.”

The mass of prisoners exploded into a riot of shoving and jabbering. Hands thrust
out at Locke through the bars, and he stepped back.

“I’m a topman,” one of the prisoners yelled, “fine topman! Take me!”

“Nine years at sea,” hollered another. “Do anything!”

Jean stepped up and pounded on the cell door again, bellowing,
“Quiiiieeeett!”

Locke held up the ring of keys Jean had taken from the lieutenant in the entrance
hall.

“I sail south on the Sea of Brass,” he said. “I make for Port Prodigal. This is not
subject to vote or negotiation. You sail with me, you sail under the
red flag. You want off when we reach the Ghostwinds, you can have it. Until then,
we’re on the watch for money and plunder. No room for shirkers. The word is equal
shares.”

That would give them something to ponder, Locke thought. A freebooter captain more
commonly took two to four shares from ten of any plunder got at sea. Just the thought
of equal shares for all would quell a great many mutinous urges.

“Equal shares,”
he repeated above another sudden outburst of babble. “But you make your decision
here and now. Take oath to me as your captain and I will free you immediately. I have
means to get you off this rock and over to the
Red Messenger
. We’ll have hours of darkness to clear the harbor and be well away. If you don’t
want to come, fine. But no courtesies in that case. You’ll stay here when we’re gone.
Maybe the morning relief will be impressed with your honesty … but I doubt it. Who
among you will desist?

None of the prisoners said anything.

“Who among you will go free, and join my crew?”

Locke winced at the eruption of shouts and cheers, then allowed himself a wide, genuine
grin.

“All gods as your witness!” he shouted. “Upon your lips and upon your hearts.”

“Our oath is made,” said Jabril, while those around him nodded.

“Then stand upon it, or pray to die, and be damned and found wanting on the scales
of the Lady of the Long Silence.”

“So we stand,” came a chorus of shouts.

Locke passed the ring of keys over to Jean. The prisoners watched in an ecstasy of
disbelief as he found the proper key, slid it into the lock, and gave it a hard turn
to the right.

“THERE IS one problem,” said Stragos.

“Just one?” Locke rolled his eyes.

“There are only forty left of the forty-four I selected.”

“How will that suit the needs of the ship?”

“We’ve got food and water for a hundred days with sixty,” said Caldris. “And she can
be handled well with half that number. Once we’ve got them sorted out, we’ll do fine
for hands at the lines.”

“So you will,” said Stragos. “The missing four are women. I had them placed in a separate
cell. One of them developed a gaol-fever, and soon they
all had it. I had no choice but to move them to shore; they’re too weak to lift their
arms, let alone join this expedition.”

“We’re for sea with not a woman aboard,” said Caldris. “Will not Merrain be coming
with us, then?”

“I’m afraid,” she said sweetly, “that my talents will be required elsewhere.”

“This is mad,” cried Caldris. “We taunt the Father of Storms!”

“You can find women for your crew in Port Prodigal, perhaps even good officers.” Stragos
spread his hands. “Surely you’ll be fine for the duration of a single voyage down.”

“Would that it were mine to so declare,” said Caldris, a haunted look in his eyes.
“Master Kosta, this is a poor way to start. We must have cats. A basket of cats, for
the
Red Messenger
. We need what luck we can steal. All gods as your witness, you
must not fail
to have cats at that ship before we put to sea.”

“Nor shall I,” said Locke.

“Then it’s settled,” said Stragos. “Heed this now, Kosta. Concerning the … depth of
your deception. In case you have any misgivings. None of the men you’ll be taking
from Windward Rock have ever served in my navy, so they’ve little notion of what to
expect from one of my officers. And soon enough you’ll be Ravelle the pirate rather
than Ravelle the naval captain, so you may tailor the impersonation as you see fit,
and worry little over small details.”

“That’s good,” said Locke. “I’ve got enough of those crammed into my head just now.”

“I have one last stipulation,” Stragos continued. “The men and women who serve at
Windward Rock, even those who are not party to this scheme, are among my finest and
most loyal. I will provide means for you to disable them without rendering permanent
harm.
In no way
are they to be otherwise injured, not by you nor your crew, and gods help you if
you leave any dead.”

“Curious sentiments for a man who claims to be no stranger to risks.”

“I would send them into battle at any time, Kosta, and lose them willingly. But none
who wear my colors honestly are to die as part of this; that much my honor compels
me to grant them. You are supposed to be professionals. Consider this a test of your
professionalism.”

“We’re not bloody murderers,” said Locke. “We kill for good reason, when we kill at
all.”

“So much the better,” said Stragos. “That is all I have to say, then. This day is
yours to do with as you see fit. Tomorrow evening, just before midnight, you’ll land
on Windward Rock and start this business.”

“We need our antidote,” said Locke. Jean and Caldris nodded.

“Of course. You three will get your last vials just before you leave. After that … I
shall expect your first return within two months. And a report of your progress.”

LOCKE AND Jean managed a ragged muster of their new crew just inside the entrance
hall. Jean had to demonstrate his physical strength to several men who attempted to
vent their frustrations on the sleeping guards.

“I said you touch them at your peril,” Locke snarled for the third time. “Let them
be! If we leave them dead behind us, we’ll lose all sympathy with anyone. Let them
live, and Verrari will be laughing about this for months to come.

“Now,” he said, “move out quietly to the dockside. Take your ease, stretch your legs,
have a good long look at the sea and sky. I’ve a boat to fetch before we can be away.
For the sake of us all, keep your mouths shut.”

They mostly obeyed this admonition, breaking up into little whispering groups as they
moved out of the tower. Locke noticed that some of the men hung back near the door,
their hands on the stones, as though afraid to step out beneath the open sky. He couldn’t
say he blamed them after months or years in the vault.

“That’s lovely,” said Jabril, who fell into step beside Locke as they approached the
dock where Caldris paced with his lantern. “Fuckin’ lovely. Almost as lovely as not
having to smell us all at once.”

“You’ll be crammed together again soon enough,” said Locke.