6
THE WORLD above the deck was one of rich blue skies and bright sunlight; a world Locke had almost forgotten over the previous days. He marveled at it, though Jabril led them to the waist under the eyes of thirty men with drawn swords and nocked arrows. Lines of white foamed on the sea at the horizons, but around the Red Messenger the waves rolled softly, and the breeze was a welcome kiss of warmth against Locke’s skin.
“I’ll be damned,” he whispered. “We sailed right back into summer again.”
“Stands to reason that we got blown a ways south even in the storm,” said Jean. “We must have passed the Prime Divisor. Latitude naught.”
The ship was still something of a shambles; Locke spotted makeshift and incomplete repairs everywhere. Mazucca stood calmly at the wheel, the only unarmed man on deck. The ship was making steerage way under nothing but its main topsail. The mainmast rigging would need one hell of a sorting out before it would carry any useful canvas; the fallen topgallant mast was nowhere to be seen.
Locke and Jean stood before the mainmast, waiting. Up on the forecastle, men were looking down on them from behind their bows. Thankfully, none of them had drawn their strings back—they looked nervous, and Locke trusted neither their judgment nor their muscle tone. Jabril leaned back against the ship’s boat and pointed at Locke.
“You fuckin’ lied to us, Ravelle!”
The crew shouted and jeered, shaking their weapons, hurling insults. Locke held up his hand to speak, but Jabril cut him off. “You said it yourself, down below. I got you to bloody admit it, so say it again, for all to hear. You ain’t no sea-officer.”
“It’s true,” said Locke. “I’m not a sea-officer. That should be obvious to everyone by now.”
“What the hell are you, then?” Jabril and the men seemed genuinely confused. “You had a Verrari uniform. You got in and out of Windward Rock. The archon took this ship, and you got it back. What’s the gods-damned game?”
Locke realized that an unsatisfactory answer to this question would have hard consequences; those things really did add up to a mystery too considerable to brush off. He scratched his chin, then put up his hands. “Okay, look. Only some of what I told you was a lie. I, ah, I really was an officer in the archon’s service, just not a naval officer. I was one of his captains of intelligence.”
“Intelligence?” cried Aspel, who held a bow atop the forecastle. “What, you mean spies and things like that?”
“Exactly,” said Locke. “Spies. And things like that. I hate the archon. I was sick of his service. I figured…I figured with a crew and a ship I had a sure way to get the hell out and give him grief at the same time. Caldris came along to do all the real work, while I was learning.”
“Aye,” said Jabril. “But that’s not what happened. You didn’t just lie to us about what you was.” He turned his back to Locke and Jean to address the crew. “He brought us out to sea without a woman aboard the ship!”
Scowls, catcalls, rude gestures, and no few hand-signs against evil. The crew were not well pleased to be reminded of that subject.
“Hold fast,” shouted Locke, “I meant to bring women with us; I had four women on my list. Didn’t you see them at Windward Rock? Other prisoners? They all went down with a fever. They had to be put back ashore, don’t you see?”
“If that was you,” shouted Jabril, “maybe you thought of it once, but what did you do to fix it when they fell sick?”
“The archon took the bloody prisoners, not me,” said Locke. “I had to work with what that left me. It left me you!”
“So it did,” said Jabril, “and then you fuckin’ brought us out here without one single cat neither!”
“Caldris told me to get some,” said Locke. “Forgive me, I just…I said I’m not a sailor, right? I got busy sneaking out of Tal Verrar and I left them behind. I didn’t understand!”
“Indeed,” said Jabril. “You had no business out here if you didn’t know the bloody mandates! Because of you, this ship is cursed! We’re lucky to be alive, those of us that is. Five men paid for what was rightly your sin! Your ignorance of what’s due Iono Stormfather by those that sail his waters!”
“Lord of the Grasping Waters shield us!” said another sailor.
“Our misfortune’s been made by you,” Jabril continued. “You admit your lies and ignorance. I say this ship ain’t clean till we get you off her! What’s the word of all?”
There was a loud, immediate, and unanimous chorus of agreement; the sailors shook their weapons at Locke and Jean as they cheered.
“That’s that,” said Jabril. “Drop your weapons on the deck.”
“Wait,” said Locke. “You said we’d talk, and I’m not finished!”
“I brought you on deck safe, and we did talk. Talk’s finished, oath’s paid off.” Jabril folded his arms. “Lose your weapons!”
“Now—”
“Archers!” yelled Jabril. The men atop the forecastle took aim.
“What’s the choice?” Locke shouted angrily. “Disarm so we can what?”
“Keep your arms and die bleeding on this deck,” said Jabril. “Or disarm, and swim as far as you can. Let Iono be your judge.”
“Quick and painful or slow and painful. Right.” Locke unbound his sword-belt and let it drop to the deck. “Master Valora had nothing to do with my cock-ups. I dragged him into this same as you!”
“Now, wait a fucking minute…,” said Jean, as he set the Wicked Sisters respectfully down at his feet.
“What say you, Valora?” Jabril looked around for objections from the crew and saw none. “Ravelle’s the liar. Ravelle admits the crime is his; away with him and the curse is lifted fair. You’d be welcome to stay.”
“He swims, I swim,” Jean growled.
“He worth that much to you?”
“I don’t have to bloody well explain myself.”
“So be it. That I respect,” said Jabril. “Time to go.”
“No,” shouted Locke as several sailors advanced, swords held at guard. “No! I have one thing to say first.”
“You had your say. Stormfather’ll judge what else there is.”
“When I found you,” said Locke, “you were in a vault. Under a fucking rock. You were locked away beneath iron and stone! You were fit to die or to push oars for the archon’s pleasure. You were dead and rotting, every last miserable one of you!”
“Heard this already,” said Jabril.
“Maybe I’m not a sea-officer,” said Locke. “Maybe I deserve this; maybe you’re doing right to punish the man that’s brought you this misfortune. But I am also the man who freed you. I am the man who gave you any life you have. You spit on that gift before the gods to do this to me!”
“You saying you want the arrows, then?” said Aspel, and the men around him laughed.
“No,” said Jabril, holding up his hands. “No. There’s a point. This ain’t a happy ship in the eyes of the gods, that’s for bloody sure. Our luck is tight-drawn as it is, even once we’re rid of him. He needs to die for the crimes he’s done; for his lies and his ignorance and the men who won’t see land again. But he did free us.” Jabril looked around and bit his lip before continuing. “We do owe him for that. I say we give them the boat.”
“We need that boat,” hollered Mazucca.
“Lots of boats in Port Prodigal,” said Streva. “Maybe we can take one as plunder on the way down there.”
“Aye, that and cats,” shouted another sailor.
“Open boat,” said Jabril. “No food, no water, says I. They go in as they are now. Let Iono take them as and when he will. What’s the word of all?”
The word of all was another outburst of enthusiastic approval. Even Mazucca gave in and nodded.
“Just a longer swim, in the end,” said Locke.
“Well,” whispered Jean, “at least you talked them into that much.”
7
THE SHIP’S boat was unlashed, hoisted out, and plopped over the starboard side into the deep blue waters of the Sea of Brass.
“They get oars, Jabril?” One of the sailors had been assigned the task of removing the water cask and rations from the boat, and he’d pulled out the oars as well.
“Think not,” said Jabril. “Iono moves them if he wants them moved. We leave them to float; that was the word.”
Parties of armed sailors lined up fore and aft to prod Locke and Jean toward the starboard entry port. Jabril followed close behind. When they reached the edge, Locke saw that the boat was tied up with one knotted line that would allow them to climb down.
“Ravelle,” said Jabril quietly. “You really hold with the Thirteenth? You really one of his divines?”
“Yeah,” said Locke. “It was the only honest blessing I could give for their sakes.”
“I suppose that makes sense. Spies, things like that.” Jabril slipped something cold beneath Locke’s tunic, against the small of his back, sliding it precariously into the top of his breeches. Locke recognized the weight of one of the stilettos from his belt.
“Stormfather maybe takes you fast,” whispered Jabril, “or maybe he lets you float. Long fuckin’ time. Until you decide you just plain had enough…you know?”
“Jabril,” said Locke, “…thank you. I, ah, wish I could have been a better captain.”
“I wish you’d been any kinda captain at all. Now get over the fuckin’ side and be gone.”
So it was that Locke and Jean watched from the gently bobbing boat as the Red Messenger limped on, southwest by west under tattered sail, leaving them in the middle of nowhere under a midafternoon sun that Locke would have given ten thousand solari for just a day or two earlier.
One hundred yards, two hundred, three…their former ship slowly made way across the rippling sea, at first with what must have been half the crew gazing astern, watching. But soon enough they lost interest in the dead men in their wake. Soon enough they returned to the task of keeping their precious little wooden world from succumbing to its wounds.
Locke wondered who would inherit the stern cabin, Jean’s hatchets, their unusual tools, and the five hundred solari stashed at the bottom of his personal chest—a mixture of their last funds and Stragos’ financing.
Thieves prosper, he thought.
“Well, splendid,” he said, stretching his legs as best he could. He and Jean faced each other from opposite rowing benches of a boat built for six. “Once again we’ve engineered a brilliant escape from immediate peril, and stolen something of value to take with us. This boat must be worth two solari.”
“I just hope that whoever ends up with the Wicked Sisters bloody well chokes,” said Jean.
“What, on the hatchets?”
“No, on anything. Whatever’s convenient. I should’ve thrown them out the cabin window rather than let someone else have them. Gods.”
“You know, Jabril slipped me a stiletto as I went off.”
Jean seemed to ponder the implications of this for a moment, then shrugged. “When a smaller boat comes along, at least we’ll have a weapon to board and carry her.”
“Are you, ah, comfortable back there in the stern cabin?”
“I am,” said Jean. He got off the bench, slid sideways, and crammed himself into the stern with his back against the starboard gunwale. “Bit tight, but luxurious trimmings.”
“That’s good,” said Locke, pointing to the middle of the boat. “Hope it doesn’t get more cramped when I install the hanging garden and the library right about there.”
“Already took that into account.” Jean leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “Hanging garden can go in on top of my bathhouse.”
“Which can double as a temple,” said Locke.
“You think that necessary?”
“I do,” said Locke. “I daresay the two of us are going to be doing a hell of a lot of praying.”