The Gentleman Bastard Series (123 page)

“Fine idea, Captain.”

That, at least, seemed to restore excitement to the sailors who were still milling near the quarterdeck. Most of them followed Jabril down a hatchway to the main deck. Their interest in the matter gave Locke a further thought.

“Master Valora!”

Jean was with Mirlon, their cook, scrutinizing something at the little brick firebox abutting the forecastle. He waved in acknowledgment of Locke’s shout.

“By sunset I want to know that every man aboard knows where all the weapons lockers are. Make sure of it yourself.”

Jean nodded and returned to whatever he was doing. By Locke’s reckoning, the idea that Captain Ravelle wanted every man to be comfortable with the ship’s weapons—aside from the bows, there were hatchets, sabers, clubs, and a few polearms—would be far better for morale than the thought that he would prefer keeping them locked up or hidden.

“Well done,” said Caldris quietly.

Mal watched the last few grains in the minute-glass bolted to the mainmast run out, then turned aft and shouted, “Hold the line!”

“Seven and a half knots,” Streva hollered a moment later.

“Seven and a half,” said Caldris. “Very well. We’ve been making that more or less steady since we left Verrar. A good run.”

Locke snuck a glance at the pegs sunk into the holes on Caldris’ navigational board, and the compass in the binnacle, which showed them on a heading just a hairsbreadth west of due south.

“A fine pace if it holds,” muttered Caldris around his cigar. “Puts us in the Ghostwinds maybe two weeks from today. Don’t know about the captain, but getting a few days ahead of schedule makes me
very
bloody comfortable.”

“And will it hold?” Locke spoke as softly as he could without whispering into the sailing master’s ear.

“Good question. Summer’s end’s an odd time on the Sea of Brass; we got storms out there somewhere. I can feel it in my bones. They’re a ways off, but they’re waiting.”

“Oh, splendid.”

“We’ll make do, Captain.” Caldris briefly removed his cigar, spat something brown at the deck, and returned it to between his teeth. “Fact is, we’re doing just fine, thank the Lord of the Grasping Waters.”

13

“KILL ’IM, Jabril! Get ’im right in the fuckin’ ’eart!”

Jabril stood amidships, facing a frock coat (donated from Locke’s chest) nailed to a wide board and propped up against the mainmast, about thirty feet away. Both of his feet touched a crudely chalked line on the deck planks. In his right hand was a throwing knife, and in his left was a full wine bottle, by the rules of the game.

The sailor who’d been shouting encouragement burped loudly and started stomping the deck. The circle of men around Jabril picked up the rhythm and began clapping and chanting, slowly at first, then faster and faster. “Don’t spill a drop! Don’t spill a drop! Don’t spill a
drop
! Don’t spill a
drop! Don’t spill a drop
!”

Jabril flexed for the crowd, wound up, and flung the knife. It struck dead center in the coat, and up went a cheer that quickly turned to howls. Jabril had sloshed some of the wine out of the bottle.

“Dammit!” he cried.

“Wine-waster,”
shouted one of the men gathered around him, with the fervor of a priest decrying the worst sort of blasphemy. “Pay the penalty and put it where it belongs!”

“Hey, at least I hit the coat,” said Jabril with a grin. “You nearly killed someone on the quarterdeck with your throw.”

“Pay the price! Pay the price! Pay the price!” chanted the crowd.

Jabril put the bottle to his lips, tipped it all the way up, and began to guzzle it in one go. The chanting rose in volume and tempo as the amount of wine in the bottle sank. Jabril’s neck and jaw muscles strained mightily, and he raised his free hand high into the air as he sucked the last of the dark red stuff down.

The crowd applauded. Jabril pulled the bottle from his lips, lowered his head, and sprayed a mouthful of wine all over the man closest to him. “Oh no,” he cried, “I
spilled
a drop! Ah ha ha ha ha!”

“My turn,” said the drenched sailor. “I’m gonna lose on purpose and spill a drop right back, mate!”

Locke and Caldris watched from the starboard rail of the quarterdeck. Caldris was taking a rare break from the wheel; Jean currently had it. They were sailing along in a calm, muggy dusk just pleasant enough for Caldris to separate himself from the ship’s precious helm by half a dozen paces.

“This was a good idea,” said Locke.

“Poor bastards have been under the boot for so long, they deserve a good debauch.” Caldris was smoking a pale blue ceramic pipe, the finest and most delicate thing Locke had ever seen in his hands, and his face was lit by the soft glow of embers.

At Caldris’ suggestion, Locke had had large quantities of wine and beer (the
Red Messenger
was amply provisioned with both, and for a crew twice this size) hauled up on deck, and he’d offered a choice of indulgences to every man on board. A double ration of fresh roasted pork—courtesy of the small but well-larded pig they’d brought with them—for those who would stay sober and on watch, and a drunken party for those who wouldn’t. Caldris, Jean, and Locke were sober, of course, along with four hands who’d chosen the pork.

“It’s things like this that makes a ship seem like home,” said Caldris. “Help you forget what a load of tedious old shit life out here can be.”

“It’s not so bad,” said Locke, a bit wistfully.

“Aye, says the captain of the fuckin’ ship, on a night sent by the gods.” He drew smoke and blew it out over the rail. “Well, if we can arrange a few more nights like this, it’ll be bloody grand. Quiet moments are worth more than whips and manacles for discipline, mark my words.”

Locke gazed out across the black waves and was startled to see a pale white-green shape, glowing like an alchemical lantern, leap up from the waves and splash back down a few seconds later. The arc of its passage left an iridescent afterimage when he blinked.

“Gods,” he said, “what the hell is
that
?”

There was a fountain of the things, now, about a hundred yards from
the ship. They flew silently after one another, appearing and disappearing above the surf, casting their ghostly light on black water that returned it like a mirror.

“You really are new to these waters,” said Caldris. “Those are flit-wraiths, Kosta. South of Tal Verrar, you see ’em all about. Sometimes in great schools, or arches leapin’ over the water. Over ships. They’ve been known to follow us about. But only after dark, mind you.”

“Are they some kind of fish?”

“Nobody rightly knows,” said Caldris. “Flit-wraiths can’t be caught. They can’t be
touched
, as I hear it. They fly right through nets, like they was ghosts. Maybe they are.”

“Eerie,” said Locke.

“You get used to ’em after a few years,” said Caldris. He drew smoke from his pipe, and the orange glow strengthened momentarily. “The Sea of Brass is a damned strange place, Kosta. Some say it’s haunted by the Eldren. Most say it’s just plain haunted. I’ve seen things. Saint Corella’s fire, burnin’ blue and red up on the yardarms, scaring the piss outta the top-watch. I sailed over seas like glass and seen … a city, once. Down below, not kidding. Walls and towers, white stone. Plain as day, right beneath our hull. In waters that our charts put at a thousand fathoms. Real as my nose it was, then gone.”

“Heh,” said Locke, smiling. “You’re pretty good at this. You don’t have to toy with me, Caldris.”

“I’m not toying with you one bit, Kosta.” Caldris frowned, and his face took on a sinister cast in the pipe-light. “I’m telling you what to expect. Flit-wraiths is just the beginning. Hell, flit-wraiths is almost friendly. There’s things out there even I have trouble believing. And there’s places no sensible ship’s master will ever go. Places that are … wrong, somehow. Places that
wait
for you.”

“Ah,” said Locke, recalling his desperate early years in the old and rotten places of Camorr, and a thousand looming, broken buildings that had seemed to wait in darkness to swallow small children. “Now there I grasp your meaning.”

“The Ghostwind Isles,” said Caldris, “well, they’re the worst of all. In fact, there’s only eight or nine islands human beings have actually set foot on, and come back to tell about it. But gods know how many more are hiding down there, under the fogs, or what the fuck’s on ’em.” He paused before continuing. “You ever hear of the three settlements of the Ghostwinds?”

“I don’t think so,” said Locke.

“Well.” Caldris took another long puff on his pipe. “Originally there was
three. Settlers out of Tal Verrar touched there about a hundred years ago. Founded Port Prodigal, Montierre, and Hope-of-Silver.

“Port Prodigal’s still there, of course. Only one left. Montierre was doing well until the war against the Free Armada. Prodigal’s tucked well back in a fine defensive position; Montierre wasn’t. After we did for their fleet, we paid a visit. Burnt their fishing boats, poisoned their wells, sank their docks. Torched everything standing, then torched the ashes. Might as well have just rubbed the name ‘Montierre’ off the map. Place ain’t worth resetting.”

“And Hope-of-Silver?”

“Hope-of-Silver,” said Caldris, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Fifty years ago, Hope-of-Silver was larger than Port Prodigal. On a different island, farther west. Thriving. That silver wasn’t just a hope. Three hundred families, give or take.

“Whatever happened, happened in one night. Those three hundred families, just … gone.”

“Gone?”

“Gone. Vanished. Not a body to be found. Not a bone for birds to pick at. Something came down from those hills, out of that fog above the jungle, and gods know what it was, but it took ’em all.”

“Merciful hells.”

“If only,” said Caldris. “A ship or two poked around after it happened. They found one ship from Hope-of-Silver itself, drifting offshore, like it’d put out in a real hurry. On it, they found the only bodies left from the whole mess. A few sailors. All the way up the masts, up at the very tops.” Caldris sighed. “They’d lashed themselves there to escape whatever they’d seen … and they were all found dead by their own weapons. Even where they were, they killed themselves rather than face whatever was comin’ for ’em.

“So pay attention to this, Master Kosta.” Caldris gestured at the circle of relaxed and rowdy sailors, drinking and throwing knives by the light of alchemical globes. “You sail a sea where shit like that happens, you can see the value of making your ship a happy home.”

14

“NEED A word, Captain Ravelle.”

A day had passed. The air was still warm and the sun still beat down with palpable force when not behind the clouds, but the seas were higher and the wind stiffer. The
Red Messenger
lacked the mass to knife deep into
the turbulent waves without shuddering, and so the deck beneath Locke’s feet became even less of a friend.

Jabril—recovered from his close engagement with a wine bottle—and a pair of older sailors approached Locke as he stood by the starboard rail late in the afternoon, holding tight and trying to look casual. Locke recognized the older sailors as men who’d declared themselves unfit at the start of the voyage; days of rest and large portions had done them good. Locke, in light of the ship’s understrength complement, had recently authorized extra rations at every meal. The notion was popular.

“What do you need, Jabril?”

“Cats, Captain.”

The bottom fell out of Locke’s stomach. With heroic effort, he managed to look merely puzzled. “What about them?”

“We been down on the main deck,” said one of the older sailors. “Sleeping, mostly. Ain’t seen no cats yet. Usually the little buggers are crawlin’ around, doin’ tricks, lookin’ to curl up an’ sleep on us.”

“I asked around,” said Jabril. “Nobody’s seen even one. Not on the main deck, not up here, not on the orlop. Not even in the bilges. You keepin’ em in your cabin?”

“No,” said Locke, picturing with perfect clarity the sight of eight cats (including Caldris’ kitten) lounging contentedly in an empty armory shack above their private bay back at the Sword Marina. Eight cats sparring and yowling over bowls of cream and plates of cold chicken.

Eight cats who were undoubtedly
still
lounging in that shack, right where he’d forgotten them, the night of the fateful assault on Windward Rock. Five days and seven hundred miles behind them.

“Kittens,” he said quickly. “I got a pack of kittens for this trip, Jabril. I reckoned a ship with a new name could do with new cats. And I can tell you they’re a hell of a shy bunch—I myself haven’t seen one since I dumped them on the orlop. I expect they’re just getting used to us. We’ll see them soon enough.”

“Aye, sir.” Locke was surprised at the relief visible on the faces of the three sailors. “That’s good to hear. Bad enough we got no women aboard until we get to the Ghostwinds; no cats would be plain awful.”

“Couldn’t tolerate no such offense,” whispered one of the older sailors.

“We’ll put out some meat every night,” said Jabril. “We’ll keep poking around the decks. I’ll let you know soon as we find one.”

“By all means,” said Locke.

Seasickness had nothing to do with his sudden urge to throw up over the side the moment they were gone.

15

ON THE evening of their fifth day out from Tal Verrar, Caldris sat down for a private conversation in Locke’s cabin with the door locked.

“We’re doing well,” the sailing master said, though Locke could see dark circles like bruises under his eyes. The old man had slept barely four hours a day since they’d reached the sea, unable to trust the wheel to Locke or Jean’s care without supervision. He’d finally cultivated a fairly responsible master’s mate, a man called Bald Mazucca, but even he was lacking in lore and could only be trained a little each day, with Caldris’ attention so divided.

They continued to be blessed by the behavior of the rest of the crew. The men were still fresh with vigor for any sort of work following their escape from prison. A half-assed carpenter and a decent sailmaker had been found, and one of Jabril’s friends had been optimistically voted quartermaster, in charge of counting and dividing plunder when it came. The infirm were gaining health with speed, and several had already joined watches. Lastly, the men no longer gathered to stare nervously across the ship’s wake, looking for any hint of pursuit on the sea behind them. They seemed to think that they had evaded Stragos’ retribution … and of course they could never be told that none would be forthcoming.