11
TWO CARRIAGES of Eyes, dressed in plain fashion, accompanied Locke and Jean when they packed their personal effects at the Villa Candessa the next morning.
“We’re heartily sorry to see you go,” said the chief steward as Locke scratched Leocanto Kosta’s signature onto a last few scraps of parchment. “You’ve been superb guests; we hope that you’ll consider us again the next time you visit Tal Verrar.”
Locke had no doubt the inn had been glad of their business; at five silvers a day for a year and a half, plus the price of additional services, he and Jean had left behind a pile of solari large enough to purchase a decent-sized house of their own and hire capable staff.
“Pressing matters compel our presence elsewhere,” muttered Locke coldly. He rebuked himself in his thoughts a moment later—it wasn’t the steward’s fault they were being chased from comfort by Stragos, Bondsmagi, and bloody mysterious assassins. “Here,” he said, fishing three solari out of his coat and setting them down on the desk. “See that this is split evenly and passed out to everyone on staff.” He turned his palm up, and with a minor bit of legerdemain conjured another gold coin. “And this for yourself, to express our compliments for your hospitality.”
“Return anytime,” said the steward, bowing deeply.
“We shall,” said Locke. “Before we go, I’d like to arrange to have some of our wardrobe stored indefinitely. You can be certain we’ll be back to claim it.”
While the steward happily scrawled the necessary orders on a parchment, Locke borrowed a square of the Villa Candessa’s pale blue formal stationery. On this he wrote, I depart immediately by the means previously discussed. Rely upon my return. I remain deeply grateful for the forbearance you have shown me.
Locke watched the steward seal it in the house’s black wax, and said, “See that this is delivered without fail to the master of the Sinspire. If not personally, then only to his majordomo, Selendri. They will want it immediately.”
Locke suppressed a smile at the slight widening of the steward’s eyes. The suggestion that Requin had a vested personal interest in the contents of the note would do much to speed it safely on its way. Nonetheless, Locke still planned to send another copy later through one of Stragos’ agents. No sense in taking chances.
“So much for those fine beds,” said Jean as he carried their two trunks of remaining possessions out to the waiting carriages. They had kept only their implements of thieving—lockpicks, weapons, alchemical dyes, disguise items—plus a few hundred solari in cold metal, and a few sets of tunics and breeches to take to sea. “So much for Jerome de Ferra’s money.”
“So much for Durenna and Corvaleur,” said Locke with a tight smile. “So much for looking over our shoulders everywhere we go. Because, in truth, we’re stepping into a cage. But just for a few days.”
“No,” said Jean thoughtfully as he stepped up into a carriage door held open by a bodyguard. “No, the cage goes on, much farther than that. It goes wherever we go.”
12
THEIR TRAINING with Caldris, which resumed that afternoon, only grew more arduous. The sailing master walked them from end to end of the ship, drilling them in the operation of everything from the capstan to the cooking box. With the help of a pair of Eyes, they unlashed the ship’s boat, hoisted it over the side, and retrieved it. They pulled the gratings from the main-deck cargo hatches and practiced sending barrels up and down with various arrangements of block and tackle. Everywhere they went, Caldris had them tying knots and naming obscure devices.
Locke and Jean were given the stern cabin of the Red Messenger for their living quarters. At sea, Jean’s compartment would be separated from Locke’s by a thin wall of stiffened canvas—and Caldris’ equally tiny “cabin” would be just across the passage—but for now they made the space into tolerably comfortable bachelor accommodations. The necessity of their enclosure seemed to impress upon them both the utter seriousness of their situation, and they redoubled their efforts, learning confusing new things with speed they had not required since they had last been under the tutelage of Father Chains. Locke found himself falling asleep with his copy of the Lexicon for a pillow nearly every night.
Mornings they sailed their dinghy west of the city, within the glass reefs but with increasing confidence that only somewhat eclipsed actual skill. Afternoons, Caldris would call out items and locations on the deck of the ship and expect them to run to each place he named.
“Binnacle,” the sailing master cried, and Locke and Jean raced together for the small wooden box just beside the ship’s wheel that held a compass and several other navigational aids. No sooner had they touched it than Caldris cried, “Taffrail,” which was easy enough—the stern rail at the very end of the ship. Next, Caldris shouted, “Craplines!” Locke and Jean ran past the bemused kitten, who lounged on the sunlit quarterdeck licking her paws. They were grimacing as they ran, for the craplines were what they’d be bracing themselves against when they crawled out onto the bowsprit to relieve themselves into the sea. More commodious methods of shitting were for rich passengers on larger vessels.
“Mizzenmast,” bellowed Caldris, and Locke and Jean both fetched up short, breathing heavily.
“Ship doesn’t bloody have one,” said Locke. “Just foremast and mainmast!”
“Oh, clever you! You’ve undone my subtle ruse, Master Kosta. Get your bloody uniform and we’ll let you act the peacock for a few hours.”
The three men worked together across the days to define a system of hand and verbal signals, with Locke and Jean making a few sensible adaptations from their existing private language.
“Privacy on a ship at sea is about as real as fucking fairy piss,” Caldris grumbled one afternoon. “I might not be able to give you clear spoken instructions with gods-know-who watching and listening. We’ll work with lots of nudges and whispers. If you know something complicated is coming up, best thing to say is just—”
“Let’s see if you know your business, Caldris!” Locke found that the Verrari naval uniform was a great aid when it came to conjuring an authoritative voice.
“Right. That or something like it. And if one of the sailors cops technical and wants your opinion on something you don’t know…”
“Come now, Imaginary Seaman, surely I don’t have to spell it out for you like a child?”
“Right, good. Give me another one.”
“Gods damn you, I know this ship’s lines like the back of my hand!” Locke looked down his nose at Caldris, which was only possible because his leather boots added an inch and a half to his height. “And I know what she’s capable of. Trust my judgment or feel free to start swimming.”
“Yes. A fine job, Master Kosta!” The sailing master squinted at Locke and scratched his beard. “Where does Master Kosta go when you do that? What exactly is it you do for a living, Leocanto?”
“I do this, I suppose. I’m a professional pretender. I…act.”
“On the stage?”
“Once upon a time. Jerome and I both. Now I suppose we make this ship our stage.”
“Indeed you do.” Caldris moved to the wheel (which was actually a pair of wheels, joined by a mechanism below the deck, to allow more than one sailor to exert their strength against it in hard weather), evading a brief attack on his bare feet from the kitten. “Places!”
Locke and Jean hurried to the quarterdeck to stand near him, ostensibly aloof and concentrating on their own tasks, while remaining close enough to pick up on a whisper or a prompting gesture.
“Imagine us beating to windward with the breeze coming in across the larboard bow,” said Caldris. It was necessary to imagine, for in the enclosed little bay not the slightest breeze stirred. “The time has come for us to tack. Just sound off the steps. I need to know you’ve got them down.”
Locke pictured the operation in his head. No square-rigged ship could sail straight into the wind. To move a desired direction against the breeze required sailing at something like a forty-five degree angle to it, and switching over at intervals to present different sides of the bow to the wind. It was in effect a series of zigzags, tack after tack, arduously clawing in a desired direction. Each changeover, from larboard tack to starboard tack or vice versa, was a delicate operation with many opportunities for disaster.
“Master Caldris,” he bellowed, “we shall put the ship about. The wheel is yours.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Master de Ferra!”
Jean gave three short blasts on the whistle he wore, as Locke did, around his neck. “All hands! All hands ready to put the ship about!”
“Master Caldris,” said Locke. “Neatness counts. Seize your wheel. Put your helm down.”
Locke waited a few seconds for dramatic effect, then yelled, “Helm a-lee!”
Caldris mimed hauling the wheel in the direction of the ship’s lee side, in this case the starboard, which would tilt the rudder in the opposite direction. Locke conjured a vivid mental picture of the sudden press of water against it, forcing the ship into a turn to larboard. They would be coming into the eye of the wind, feeling its full force; an error at this point could “lock them in irons,” stalling all progress, stealing power from rudder and sails alike. They would be helpless for minutes, or worse—an error like that in heavy weather could flip them, and ships were not acrobats.
“Imaginary Sailors! Tacks and sheets!” Jean waved his arms and hollered his instructions to the invisible deckhands. “Smartly now, you slothful dogs!”
“Master de Ferra,” called Locke, “that Imaginary Sailor is not minding his duty!”
“I’ll fuckin’ kill you later, you cabbage-brained pig-rapist! Seize your rope and wait for my word!”
“Master Caldris!” Locke whirled toward the sailing master, who was nonchalantly sipping from a leather skin of pinkwater. “Hard over!”
“Aye, sir.” He belched and set the skin down on the deck at his feet. “By your word, hard over.”
“Up mainsail,” cried Locke.