“Where’s the singing, where’s the dancing on the yardarms, where’s the ale casks fore and aft, where’s the drinking and puking sunrise to sunset?”
“More or less. Not exactly a navy, you know.”
“Drakasha is former navy. Syrune. She doesn’t talk about it much, but she doesn’t try to hide her accent anymore. She did, once.”
Syrune, thought Jean, an island empire even more easterly than Jerem and Jeresh; proud and insular dark-skinned folk who took their ships seriously. If Drakasha was one of them, she’d come from a tradition of sea-officers that some said was as old as the Therin Throne.
“Syrune,” he said. “That explains some things. I thought the past was a currency?”
“She’d’ve let you have that bit for free,” said Ezri. “Trust me, if history’s a coin, she’s sitting on a gods-damned fortune.”
“So she, uh, bends the ship to her old habits?”
“More like we let ourselves be bent.” Ezri gestured to him to keep painting, and he returned to work. “Brass Sea captains are special. They have status, on the water and off. There’s a council of them in Prodigal. But each ship…the brethren sort of go their own way. Some captains get elected. Some only rule when it’s time to take arms. With Drakasha…she rules because we know she’s our best chance. At anything. They don’t fuck around in Syrune.”
“So you keep naval watches, and drink like nervous husbands, and mind your manners?”
“You don’t approve?”
“Gods’ blood, I damn well approve. It’s just tidier than I imagined, is all.”
“You wouldn’t call anything we do naval if you’d ever served on a real ship of war. Most of our crew have, and this is a slacker’s paradise by comparison. We keep our habits because most of us have been aboard other pirate ships, too. Seen the leaks that gain a little bit every day. Seen the mechanisms rusting. Seen the rigging fraying. What good’s slacking all the time if the ship comes apart beneath you while you sleep?”
“So you’re a prudent bunch.”
“Yeah. Look, the sea either makes you prudent, or it kills you. Drakasha’s officers take an oath. We’re sworn that this ship goes down in battle, or by the will of the gods. Not for want of work, or canvas, or cord. That’s a holy vow.” She stretched. “And not for want of paint, either. Give the whole thing another coat, and look sharp about it.”
Officers. Jean reviewed the Orchid ’s officers as he worked, to keep his mind off Ezri. There was Drakasha, obviously. She kept no watch but appeared when and as she saw fit. She seemed to be on deck at least half the day, and materialized like magic when anything interesting happened. Beneath her, Ezri…dammit, no thoughts concerning Ezri. Not now.
Mumchance, the sailing master, and his little crew of trusted wheel-hands. Drakasha might allow ordinary crewfolk to hold the helm in steady weather, but for any operation of skill, it was Mum and his bunch or nobody. Roughly equal with Mum were the quartermaster—currently assigned to the Red Messenger—and the physiker, Treganne, who would likely never admit to being equal with anyone who didn’t have a temple with their name on it. Drakasha had the great cabin, naturally, and the four highest officers were allowed little closet rooms in the companionway, canvas-walled things like his old cabin.
Then there was a carpenter, a sailmaker, a cook, and a boatswain. The only privilege of being a petty officer seemed to be the right to boss a few other crewfolk about from time to time. There was also a pair of…under-lieutenants, Jean supposed. Ezri called them her watch chiefs, and they were Ezri when Ezri wasn’t around. Utgar had the Red watch and a woman called Nasreen led the Blue, but Jean had yet to meet her, since she’d been entrusted with the Messenger’s prize crew.
It seemed that all the menial, back-and-forth mucking about was giving Jean—and the rest of the scrub watch—the chance to learn the ship’s hierarchy, along with its layout. He supposed that was by design.
The weather had been consistent since their capture. Steady light breezes from the northeast, clouds that came and went like a tavern dancer’s favor, endless low waves that made the sea gleam like a million-faceted sapphire. The sun was a pounding heat by day, and enclosure stifled them at night, but Jean was conditioned to this work by now. He was as brown as Paolo and Cosetta. Locke, too, seemed to be making the best of it—tanned and bearded and genuinely wiry, for once, rather than merely slender. His size and an unwise boast about his agility had gotten him assigned to mast-slushing duty, foremast and main, each and every morning.
Their food still came late after each long day, and though charmless it was more than ample. They had a full liquor ration now, too. As much as Jean hated to admit it, even to himself, he didn’t mind this turn of events so very much. He could work and sleep in confidence that the people ruling the ship knew their business; he and Locke no longer had to run everything on improvisation and prayer. If not for the damned log, with its relentless record of day after day passing them by, day after day of the antidote waning, it would have been a good time. A good and timeless interval, with Lieutenant Delmastro to puzzle over.
But neither he nor Locke could stop counting the days.
2
ON THE eighteenth of Festal, Bald Mazucca snapped.
He’d given no warning; though he’d been sullen in the undercastle each night, he was one among many tired and short-tempered men, and he’d made no further threats toward anyone, crew or scrub watch.
It was dusk, two or three hours into the Blue watch’s duty, and lanterns were going up across the ship. Jean was sitting next to Locke by the chicken coops, unraveling old rope into its component yarns. Locke was shredding these into a pile of rough brown fibers. Tarred, this stuff would become oakum, and be used for everything from caulking seams to stuffing pillows. It was a miserably tedious job, but the sun was almost gone and the end of duty for the day was nearly at hand.
There was a clatter from somewhere near the undercastle, followed by swearing and laughter. Bald Mazucca stomped into sight, carrying a mop and a bucket, with a crewman Jean didn’t recognize at his heels. The crewman said something else that Jean didn’t catch, and then it happened—Mazucca whirled and flung the heavy bucket at him, catching him right in the face. The crewman fell on his backside, stunned.
“Gods damn you,” Mazucca cried, “d’you think I’m a fuckin’ child?”
The crewman fumbled at his belt for a weapon—a short club, Jean saw. But Mazucca’s blood was up, and the crewman was still recovering from the blow. In a moment, Mazucca had kicked him in the chest and snatched the club for himself. He raised it above his head, but that was as far as he got. Three or four crewfolk hit him simultaneously, knocking him to the deck and wrestling the club from his hand.
Heavy footsteps beat rapidly from the quarterdeck to the waist. Captain Drakasha had come without being summoned.
As she flew past, Jean—his rope work quite forgotten—felt his stomach flutter. She had it. She wore it like a cloak. The same aura that he’d once seen in Capa Barsavi, something that slept inside until it was drawn out by anger or need, so sudden and so terrible. Death itself was beating a tread upon the ship’s planks.
Drakasha’s crewfolk had Mazucca up and pinned by the arms. The man who’d been hit by the bucket had retrieved his club and was rubbing his head nearby. Zamira came to a halt and pointed at him.
“Explain yourself, Tomas.”
“I was…I was…sorry, Cap’n. Just having some fun.”
“He’s been hounding me all fuckin’ afternoon,” said Mazucca, subdued but nowhere near calm. “Hasn’t done a lick of work. Just follows me around, kicks my bucket, takes my tools, messes up my shit and sets me to fixing it again.”
“True, Tomas?”
“I just…it was just fun, Cap’n. Teasing the scrub watch. Didn’t mean nothing. I’ll stop.”
Drakasha moved so fast Tomas didn’t even have time to flinch until he was already on his way back to the deck, his nose broken. Jean had noted the elegant upward sweep of her arm and the precise use of the palm—he’d been on the receiving end of that sort of blow at least twice in his life. Tomas, stupid ass that he was, had his sympathy.
“Agggh,” said Tomas, spraying blood.
“The scrub watch are like tools,” said Drakasha. “I expect them to be kept in a useful trim. Maintained. You want to have fun, you make sure it’s responsible fun. I’m halving your share of the Red Messenger loot, and your share of the sale.” She gestured to the women standing behind him. “You two. Haul him aft and find Scholar Treganne.”
As Tomas was being dragged toward the quarterdeck for a surprise visit to the ship’s physiker, Drakasha turned to Mazucca.
“You heard my rules, first night you were on my ship.”
“I know. I’m sorry, Captain Drakasha, he just—”
“You did hear. You did hear what I said, and you understood.”
“I did, I was angry, I—”
“Death to touch a weapon. I made that clear as a cloudless sky, and you did it anyway.”
“Look—”
“I’ve got no use for you,” she said, and her right arm darted out to close around Mazucca’s throat. The crewfolk released him, and he locked his hands around Drakasha’s forearm, to no avail. She began dragging him toward the starboard rail. “Out here, you lose your head, you make one dumb gods-damned mistake, you can take the whole ship down. If you can’t keep your wits when you’ve been told what’s at stake, clear and simple, you’re just ballast.”
Kicking and gagging, Mazucca tried to fight back, but Drakasha hauled him inexorably toward the side of the weather deck. About two yards from the rail, she gritted her teeth, drew her right arm back, and flung Mazucca forward, putting the full power of hip and shoulder into the push. He hit hard, flailing for balance, and toppled backward. A second later there was the sound of a splash.
“This ship has ballast enough.”
Crewfolk and scrub watch alike ran to the starboard rail. After a quick glance at Locke, Jean got up to join them. Drakasha remained where she was, arms at her side, her sudden rage evaporated. In that, too, she seemed like Barsavi. Jean wondered if she would spend the rest of the night sullen and brooding, or even drinking.
The ship had been making a steady four or five knots, and Mazucca didn’t appear to be a strong swimmer. He was already five or six yards to the side of the ship, and fifteen or twenty yards back, off the quarterdeck. His arms and head bobbed against the rippling darkness of the waves, and he hollered for help.
Dusk. Jean shuddered. A hungry time on the open sea. The hard light of day drove many things deep beneath the waves, made the water nearly safe for hours on end. All that changed at twilight.
“Shall we fish him out, Captain?” A crewman had stepped up beside her, and he spoke in a voice so low that only those nearby could hear.
“No,” said Drakasha. She turned and began to walk slowly aft. “Sail on. Something will be along for him soon enough.”