8
“I WAS not aware,” said Locke the next morning, “that I had joined your navy. I thought the whole idea was to run away from it.”
“A means to an end, Master Kosta.”
The archon had been waiting for them in their private bay within the Sword Marina. One of his personal boats (Locke remembered it from the glass caverns beneath the Mon Magisteria) was tied up behind their dinghy. Merrain and half a dozen Eyes had been in attendance. Now Merrain was helping Locke try on the uniform of a Verrari naval officer.
The tunic and breeches were the same dark blue as the doublets of the Eyes. The coat, however, was brownish red, with stiff black leather sewn along the forearms in approximation of bracers. The single neck-cloth was dark blue, and gleaming brass devices in the shape of roses over crossed swords were pinned to his upper arms just below the shoulders.
“I don’t have many fair-haired officers in my service,” said Stragos, “but the uniform is a good fit. I’ll have another made by the end of the week.” Stragos reached out and adjusted some of Locke’s details—tightening his neck-cloth, shifting the hang of the empty scabbard at his belt. “After that, you’ll wear it for a few hours each day. Get used to it. One of my Eyes will instruct you in how to carry yourself, and the courtesies and salutes we use.”
“I still don’t understand why—”
“I know.” Stragos turned to Caldris, who, in his master’s presence, had lost his customary vulgar impishness. “How are they doing in their training, sailing master?”
“The Protector is already well aware,” said Caldris slowly, “of my general opinion concerning this here mission.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“They are…less hopeless than they were, Protector. Somewhat less hopeless.”
“That will do, then. You still have nearly three weeks to mold them. I daresay they already look better acquainted with hard work under the sun.”
“Where’s our ship, Stragos?” asked Locke.
“Waiting.”
“And where’s our crew?”
“In hand.”
“And why the hell am I wearing this uniform?”
“Because it pleases me to make you a captain in my navy. That’s what’s meant by the twin roses-over-swords. You’ll be a captain for one night only. Learn to look comfortable in the uniform. Then learn to be patient waiting for your orders.”
Locke scowled, then placed his right hand on his scabbard and crossed his left arm, with a clenched fist, across his chest. He bowed from the waist at the precise angle he’d seen Stragos’ Eyes use on several occasions. “Gods defend the archon of Tal Verrar.”
“Very good,” said Stragos. “But you’re an officer, not a common soldier or sailor. You bow at a shallower angle.”
He turned and walked toward his boat. The Eyes formed ranks and marched after him, and Merrain began pulling the uniform hurriedly off Locke.
“I return you gentlemen to Caldris’ care,” said the archon as he stepped down into the boat. “Use your days well.”
“And just when in the name of the gods do we get to learn how this all fits together?”
“All in good time, Kosta.”
9
TWO MORNINGS later, when the gates swung wide to admit Merrain’s boat to the private bay in the Sword Marina, Locke and Jean were surprised to discover that their dinghy had been joined during the night by an actual ship.
A soft warm rain was falling, not a proper squall from the Sea of Brass but an annoyance blowing in from the mainland. Caldris waited on the stone plaza in a light oilcloak, with rivulets of water streaming from his unprotected hair and beard. He grinned when the boat delivered Locke and Jean, lightly clad and bootless.
“Look you both,” Caldris yelled. “Here she is in person. The ship we’re damn likely to die on!” He clapped Locke on the back and laughed. “She’s styled the Red Messenger.”
“Is she now?” The vessel was quiet and still, sails furled, lamps unlit. There was something unfathomably melancholy about a ship in such a condition, Locke thought. “One of the archon’s, I presume?”
“No. It seems the gods have favored the Protector with a chance to be bloody economical with this mission. You know what stiletto wasps are?”
“Only too well.”
“Some idiot tried to put into port with a hive in his hold, not too long ago. Gods know what he was planning with it. That got him executed, and the ship was ruled droits of the archonate. That nest of little monsters got burned.”
“Oh,” said Locke, sniggering. “I’m very sure it was. Thorough and incorruptible, the fine customs officers of Tal Verrar.”
“Archon had it careened,” continued Caldris. “Needed new sails, some shoring up, fresh lines, bit of caulking. All the insides got smoked with brimstone, and she’s been renamed and rechristened. Still plenty cheap, compared to offering up one of his own.”
“How old is she?”
“Twenty years, near as I can tell. Hard years, likely, but she’ll hold for a few more. Assuming we bring her back. Now show me what you’ve learned. What do you think she is?”
Locke studied the vessel, which had two masts, a very slightly raised stern deck, and a single boat stored upside down at its waist. “Is she a caulotte?”
“No,” said Caldris, “she’s more properly a vestrel, what you’d also call a brig, a very wee one. I can see why you’d say caulotte. But let me tell you why you’re off on the particulars….”
Caldris launched into a number of highly technical explanations, pointing out things about leeward main braces and cross-jacks that Locke only half understood in the manner of a visitor to a foreign city listening to eager directions from a fast native talker.
“…she’s eighty-eight feet, stem to stern, not counting the bowsprit, of course,” finished Caldris.
“I hadn’t truly realized before now,” said Locke. “Gods, I’m to actually command this ship.”
“Ha! No. You are to feign command of this ship. Don’t get blurry-eyed on me, now. All you do is tell the crew what my proper orders are. Hurry aboard.”
Caldris led them up a ramp and onto the deck of the Red Messenger, and while Locke gazed around, absorbed in every visible detail, a gnawing unease was growing in his stomach. He’d taken all the minutiae of shipboard life for granted on his single previous (and bedridden) voyage, but now every knot and ring-bolt, every block and tackle, every shroud and line and pin and mechanism might hold the key to saving his life…or foiling his impersonation utterly.
“Damn,” he muttered to Jean. “Maybe ten years ago, I might have been dumb enough to think this was going to be easy.”
“It’s not getting any easier,” said Jean, squeezing Locke on his uninjured shoulder. “But we’re not yet out of time to learn.”
They paced the full length of the ship in the warm drizzle, with Caldris alternately pointing things out and demanding answers to difficult questions. They finished their tour at the Red Messenger’s waist, and Caldris leaned back against the ship’s boat to rest.
“Well,” he said, “you do learn fast, for lubbers. I can give you that much. Notwithstanding, I’ve taken shits with more sea wisdom than the pair of you combined.”
“Come ashore and let us try to teach you our profession some time, goat-face.”
“Ha! Master de Ferra, you’ll fit in just fine in that wise. Maybe you’ll never truly know shit from staysails, but you’ve got the manner of a grand first mate. Now, up the ropes. We’re visiting the maintop this morning while this fine weather holds.”
“The maintop?” Locke stared up the mainmast, dwindling into the grayness above, and squinted as rain fell directly into his face. “It’s bloody raining!”
“It has been known to rain at sea. Ain’t nobody passed you the word?” Caldris stepped over to the starboard main shrouds; they passed down just the opposite side of the deck railing, and were secured by deadeyes to the outer hull itself. Grunting, the sailing master hoisted himself up onto the rail and beckoned for Locke and Jean to follow. “The poor bastards on your crew will be up there in all weather. I’m not taking you out to sea as virgins to the ropes, so get your asses up after me!”
They followed Caldris up into the rain, carefully stepping into the ratlines that crossed the shrouds to provide footholds. Locke had to admit that nearly two weeks of steady hard exercise had given him more wind for a task like this, and begun to mitigate the pain of his old wounds. Still, the strange and faintly yielding sensation of the rope ladder was like nothing familiar to him, and he was only too happy when a dark yardarm loomed out of the drizzle just above them. A few moments later, he scampered up to join Jean and Caldris on a circular platform that was blessedly firm.
“We’re two-thirds up, maybe,” said Caldris. “This yard carries the main course.” Locke knew by now that he was referring to the ship’s primary square sail, not a navigational plan. “Farther up, you got your topsails and t’gallants. But this is fine enough for now. Gods, you think you got it bad today, can you imagine climbing up here with the ship bucking side to side like a bull making babies? Ha!”
“Can’t be as bad,” Jean whispered to Locke, “as some fucking idiot toppling off and landing on one of us.”
“Will I be expected,” said Locke, “to come up here frequently?”
“You got unusually sharp eyes?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Hell with it, then. Nobody’ll expect it. Captain’s place is on deck. You want to see things from a distance, use a glass. You’ll have top-eyes hugging the mast farther up to do your spotting.”
They took in the view for a few more minutes, and then thunder rumbled in the near distance, and the rain stiffened.
“Down we go, I think.” Caldris rose to his knees and prepared to slide over the side. “There’s tempting the gods, and then there’s tempting the gods.”
Locke and Jean reached the deck again with no trouble, but when Caldris jumped down from the shrouds he was breathing raggedly. He groaned and massaged his upper left arm. “Damn. I’m too old for the tops. Thank the gods the master’s place is on the decks, too.” Thunder punctuated his words. “Come on, then. We’ll use the main cabin. No sailing today; just books and charts. I know how much you love those.”