6
“EXCELLENT WORK, Master Kosta. Fascinating and bloody unorthodox. By your reckoning, we’re somewhere near the latitudes of the Kingdom of the Seven Marrows. A touch on the warm side for Vintila, don’t you think?”
Locke slipped the backstaff, a four-foot pole with an awkward arrangement of vanes and calipers on the forward end, off his shoulder and sighed.
“Can you not see the sun-shadow on your horizon vane?”
“Yes, but—”
“I admit, the device ain’t exactly as precise as an arrow-shot. But even a land-sucker should be able to do better than that. Do it again, just like I showed you. Horizon and sun-shadow. And be grateful you’re using a Verrari Quadrant; the old cross-staffs made you look right at the sun instead of away from it.”
“Beg pardon,” said Jean, “but I’d always heard this device referred to as a Camorri Quadrant.”
“Bullshit,” said Caldris. “This here’s a Verrari Quadrant. Verrari invented it, twenty years back.”
“That claim,” said Locke, “must take some of the sting out of getting the shit walloped out of you in the Thousand-Day War, eh?”
“You sweet on Camorri, Kosta?” Caldris put a hand on the backstaff. Locke realized with a start that his anger wasn’t bantering. “I thought you was Talishani. You got a reason to fuckin’ speak up for Camorr?”
“No, I was just—”
“Just what, now?”
“Forgive me.” Locke realized his mistake. “I didn’t think. It’s not just history to you, is it?”
“All thousand days and then some,” said Caldris. “I was there all the fuckin’ way.”
“My apologies. I suppose you lost friends.”
“You damn well suppose right.” Caldris snorted. “Lost a ship from under me. Lucky not to be devilfish food. Bad times.” He removed his hand from Locke’s backstaff and composed himself. “I know you didn’t mean anything, Kosta. I’m…sorry, too. Those of us who bled in that fight didn’t exactly think we was losing it when the Priori gave in. Partly why we had such hopes for the first archon.”
“Leocanto and I have no reason to love Camorr,” said Jean.
“Good.” Caldris clapped Locke on the back and seemed to relax. “Good. Keep it that way, eh? Now! We’re lost at sea, Master Kosta! Find our latitude!”
It was the fourth day of their training with the Verrari sailing master; after their customary morning of torture at the oars, Caldris had led them out to the seaward side of the Silver Marina. Perhaps five hundred yards out from the glass island, still well within the sweep of calmed sea provided by the city’s encircling reefs, there was a flat-topped stone platform in forty or fifty feet of translucent blue-green water. Caldris had called it the Lubber’s Castle; it was a training platform for would-be Verrari naval and merchant sailors.
Their dinghy was lashed to the side of the platform, which was perhaps thirty feet on a side. Spread across the stones at their feet were an array of navigational devices: backstaffs, cross-staffs, hourglasses, charts and compasses, a Determiner’s Box, and a set of unfathomable peg-boards that Caldris claimed were used for tracking course changes. The kitten was sleeping on an astrolabe, covering up the symbols etched into its brass surface.
“Friend Jerome was tolerably good at this,” said Caldris. “But he’s not to be the captain; you are.”
“And I thought you were to handle all the important tasks, on pain of gruesome death, as you’ve only mentioned ten score times.”
“I am. You’re mad if you think that’s changed. But I need you to understand just enough not to gawk with your thumb up your ass when I say this or do that. Just know which end to hold, and be able to read a latitude that doesn’t put us off by half the fucking world.”
“Sun-shadow and horizon,” muttered Locke.
“Indeed. Later on tonight, we’ll use the old-style staff for the only thing it’s still good for—taking your reading from the stars.”
“But it’s just past noon!”
“Right,” said Caldris. “We’re in for a good long haul today. There’s books and charts and maths to do, and more sailing and rowing, then more books and charts. Late to bed, you’ll be. Better get comfortable with this here Lubber’s Castle.” Caldris spat on the stones. “Now fetch that fucking latitude!”
7
“WHAT’S IT mean if we broach?” said Jean.
It was late in the evening of their ninth day with Caldris, and Jean was soaking in a huge brass tub. Despite the warmth of their enclosed chambers at the Villa Candessa, he’d demanded hot water, and it was still sending up wisps of curling steam after three-quarters of an hour. On a little table beside the tub was an open bottle of Austershalin brandy (the 554, the cheapest readily available) and both of the Wicked Sisters.
The shutters and curtains of the suite’s windows were all drawn tight, the door was bolted, and Locke had wedged a chair up beneath its handle. That might provide a few seconds’ additional warning if someone tried to enter by force. Locke lay on his bed, letting two glasses of brandy loosen the knots in his muscles. His knives were set out on the nightstand, not three feet from his hands.
“Ah, gods,” he said. “I know this. It’s…something…bad?”
“To meet strong winds and seas abeam,” said Jean, “taking them on the side, rather than cutting through them with the bow.”
“And that’s bad.”
“Powerful bad.” Jean was paging through a tattered copy of Indrovo Lencallis’ Wise Mariner’s Practical Lexicon, with Numerous Enlightening Examples from Honest History. “Come on, you’re the captain of the ship. I’m just your skull-cracker.”
“I know. Give me another.” Locke’s own copy of the book was currently resting underneath his knives and his glass of brandy.
“Hmmm.” Jean flipped pages. “Caldris says to put us on a beam reach. What the hell’s he talking about?”
“Wind coming in perpendicular to the keel,” muttered Locke. “Hitting us straight on the side.”
“And now he wants a broad reach.”
“Right.” Locke paused to sip his brandy. “Wind neither blowing right up our ass nor straight on the side. Coming from one of the rear quarters, at forty-five degrees or so to the keel.”
“Good enough.” Jean flipped pages again. “Box the compass. What’s the sixth point?”
“Hard east. Gods, this is just like dinner with Chains back home.”
“Right on both counts. South a point.”
“Um, east by south.”
“Right. South another point.”
“Southeast east?”
“And another point.”
“Ah, gods.” Locke grabbed his glass and downed the rest of his brandy in one gulp. “Southeast by go-fuck-yourself. That’s enough for tonight.”
“But—”
“I am the captain of the bloody ship,” said Locke, rolling over onto his stomach. “My orders are to drink your brandy and go to bed.” He reached out, pulled a pillow completely over his head, and was fast asleep in moments. Even in his dreams he was tying knots, bracing sails, and finding latitudes.