“Whatever he added, it’s enough that four hundred years after the scourging of Therim Pel, Lucarno is the only playwright with Talathri’s formal patronage whose work is still preserved in its entirety and regularly prepared in new editions—”
“An appeal to the tastes of the groundlings is not equivalent to a valid philosophical analysis of the works in question! Lucestra of Nicora wrote in her letters to—”
“Begging everyone’s pardon,” said Big Konar, “but it ain’t polite to have an argument if nobody else knows what the fuck you’re arguing about.”
“I have to admit that Konar is right,” said Drakasha. “I can’t tell if you two are about to pull steel or found a mystery cult.”
“Who the hell are you?” asked Rodanov, his eyes fixed on Jean. “I haven’t had anyone to discuss this with for years.”
“I had an unusual childhood,” said Jean. “Yourself?”
“The, ah, prevailing vanity of my youth was that the Therin Collegium needed a master of letters and rhetoric named Rodanov.”
“What happened?”
“Well, there was a certain professor of rhetoric, see, who’d come up with a foolproof way to run a betting shop out of the Hall of Studious Reflection. Gladiator pits, collegium boat races, that sort of thing. He used his students as message runners, and since money can be used to buy beer, that made him our personal hero. Of course, when he had to flee the city it was whips and chains for the rest of us, so I signed on for shit-work aboard a merchant galleon—”
“When was this?” interrupted Locke.
“Hell, this was back when the gods were young. Must be twenty-five years.”
“This professor of rhetoric…was his name Barsavi? Vencarlo Barsavi?”
“How the hell could you possibly know that?”
“Might have…crossed paths with him a few times.” Locke grinned. “Traveling in the east. Vicinity of Camorr.”
“I heard rumors,” said Rodanov. “Heard the name once or twice, but never made it to Camorr myself. Barsavi, really? Is he still there?”
“No,” said Jean. “No, he died a couple of years ago, is what I heard.”
“Too bad.” Rodanov sighed. “Too damn bad. Well…I can tell I’ve detained you all for too long nattering about people who’ve been dead for centuries. Don’t take me too seriously, Valora. A pleasure to meet you. You as well, Ravelle.”
“Good to see you, Jaffrim,” said Zamira, rising from her chair along with him. “Until tomorrow, then?”
“I’ll expect a good show,” he said. “Evening, all.”
“One of your fellow captains,” said Jean as Rodanov descended the stairs. “Very interesting. So why didn’t he want our table, then?”
“Dread Sovereign’s the biggest ship any Port Prodigal captain has ever had,” said Zamira, slowly. “And she’s got the biggest crew by far. Jaffrim doesn’t need to play the games the rest of us do. And he knows it.”
There was no conversation at the table for several minutes, until Rask suddenly cleared his throat and spoke in a low, gravelly voice.
“I saw a play once,” he said. “It had this dog that bit a guy in the balls—”
“Yeah,” said Malakasti. “I saw that, too. ’Cause the dog loves sausage, and the man is always feeding him sausage, and then he takes his breeches off—”
“Right,” said Drakasha. “The very next person who mentions a play of any sort is going to swim back to the Orchid. Let’s go see how badly our friend Banjital Vo wanted his silver.”
9
REGAL WOKE Locke the next day just in time for the noon watch change. Locke plucked the kitten off the top of his head, stared into his little green eyes, and said, “This may come as quite a shock to you, but there is just no way in all the hells that I’m getting attached to you, you sleep-puncturing menace.”
Locke yawned, stretched, and walked out into a soft warm rain falling from a sky webbed by cataracts of cloud. “Ahhh,” he said, stripping to his breeches and letting the rain wash some of the smell of the Tattered Crimson from his skin. It was strange, he reflected, how the myriad stinks of the Poison Orchid had become familiar, and the smell of the sort of places he’d spent years in had become intrusive.
Drakasha had shifted the Orchid to a position just off one of the long stone piers in the Hospital anchorage, and Locke saw that a dozen small boats had come up along the larboard side. While five or six armed Blue watch held the entry port, Utgar and Zamira were negotiating vigorously with a man standing atop a launch filled with pineapples.
The early afternoon was consumed by the coming and going of boats; assorted Prodigals appeared offering to sell everything from fresh food to alchemical drugs, while representatives from the independent traders came to inquire about the goods in the hold and view samples under Drakasha’s watchful eye. The Orchid temporarily became a floating market square.
Around the second hour of the afternoon, just as the rain was abating and the sun burning through the clouds above, the Red Messenger appeared out of the Trader’s Gate passage and dropped anchor beside the Orchid. Nasreen, Gwillem, and the prize crew came back aboard, along with several of the ex-Messengers who’d recovered enough to move around.
“What the hell is he doing here?” one of them hollered when he saw Locke.
“Come with me,” said Jabril, putting an arm around the man’s shoulder. “Nothin’ I can’t explain. And while I’m at it, I’ll tell you about a thing called the scrub watch….”
Scholar Treganne ordered a boat lowered so she could visit the Messenger and examine the injured still aboard her. Locke helped hoist the smallest boat down, and while he was doing so Treganne crossed paths with Gwillem at the entry port.
“We’ve traded cabins,” she said gruffly. “I’ve got your old compartment, and you can have mine.”
“What? What? Why?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
Before the Vadran could ask any more questions, Treganne had clambered over the side and Zamira had taken him by the arm.
“What sort of bid will the Shipbreaker open with for her?”
“Two silvers and a cup of cowpox scabs,” said Gwillem.
“Yes, but what can I reasonably talk him up to?”
“Eleven or twelve hundred solari. He’s going to need two new topgallant masts, as the fore was sprung as well. It just didn’t come down. New yards, some new sails. She’s had work done recently, and that’s a help, but a look at her timbers will show her age. She’s got maybe ten years of use left in her.”
“Captain Drakasha,” said Locke, stepping up beside Gwillem. “If I may be so bold—”
“This scheme you were talking about, Ravelle?”
“I’m sure I can squeeze at least a few hundred more solari out of him.”
“Ravelle?” Gwillem frowned at him. “Ravelle, the former captain of the Red Messenger?”
“Delighted to meet you,” said Locke, “and all I need to borrow, Captain, are some better clothes, a few leather satchels, and a pile of coins.”
“What?”
“Relax. I’m not going to spend them. I just need them for show. And you’d better let me have Jerome as well.”
“Captain,” said Gwillem, “why is Orrin Ravelle alive and a member of the crew and asking you for money?”
“Del!” hollered Drakasha.
“Right here,” she said, appearing a moment later.
“Del, take Gwillem aside and explain to him why Orrin Ravelle is alive and a member of the crew.”
“But why is he asking you for money?” said Gwillem. Ezri grabbed him by the arm and pulled him away.
“My people expect to be paid for the Messenger,” said Drakasha. “I need to be sure whatever you’re scheming won’t actually make things worse.”
“Captain, in this matter I’d be acting as a member of your crew—lest you forget, I have a share of what we get for the Messenger, too.”
“Hmmm.” She looked around and tapped her fingers on the hilt of one of her sabers. “Better clothes, you say?”