The Gentleman Bastard Series (220 page)

On the night of their fourth day, Locke caught flashes of whitish yellow illuminating the southern horizon, but his excitement died when he realized that he was looking at Lashain.

On the fifth day they picked up speed, and the capricious winds grew stronger. The whole sky bruised over with promising clouds, and just after noon the first drops of cool rain began to fall. Locke and Jean retreated to their cabin, trying to look innocent. They buried themselves in books and idle conversation, glancing out the cabin window every few moments, watching in mutual satisfaction as the troughs between the waves deepened and the strands of foam thickened at their crests.

At the third hour of the afternoon, with the rain steady and the lake rolling at four or five feet, Adalric came to their door to receive instructions for dinner.

“Perhaps the soup of the veal, masters?”

“By all means,” said Locke. If any chance to escape was coming, he wanted to face it with at least one more of the Vadran prodigy’s feasts shoved down his gullet.

“And how about chicken?” said Jean.

“I’ll do one the murder right away.”

“Dessert too,” said Locke. “Let’s have a big one tonight. Storms make me hungry.”

“I have a cake of the honey and ginger,” said Adalric.

“Good man,” said Jean. “And let’s have some wine. Two bottles of sparkling apple, eh?”

“Two bottles,” said the cook. “I has it brung to you.”

“Decent fellow, for all that he tramples the language,” said Locke when the door had closed behind the cook. “I hate to take advantage of him.”

“He won’t miss us if we slip away,” said Jean. “He’s got the whole crew to appreciate him. You know what sort of slop they’d be gagging down if he wasn’t aboard.”

Locke went on deck a few minutes later, letting the rain soak him as he stood by the foremast, feigning indifference as the deck rolled slowly from side to side. It was a gentle motion as yet, but if the weather continued to pick up it was a very promising trend indeed.

“Master Lazari!” Solus Volantyne came down from the quarterdeck, oilcloak fluttering. “Surely you’d be more comfortable in your cabin?”

“Perhaps our mutual friend neglected to tell you, Captain Volantyne, that Master Callas and myself have been at sea. Compared to what we endured down in the Ghostwinds, this is invigorating.”

“I do know something of your history, Lazari, but I’m also charged with your safety.”

“Well, until someone takes these damned bracelets off my ankles I can’t exactly swim to land, can I?”

“And what if you catch cold?”

“With Adalric aboard? He must have possets that would drive back death itself.”

“Will you at least consent to an oilcloak, so you look like less of a crazy landsman?”

“That’d be fine.”

Volantyne summoned a sailor with a spare cloak, and Locke resumed talking as he fastened it over his shoulders. “Now, pardon my ignorance, but where the hell are we, anyway?”

“Forty miles due west of Lashain, give or take a hair in any direction.”

“Ah. I thought I spotted the city last night.”

“We’re not making good westward progress. If I had a schedule to keep I’d be in a black mood, but thanks to you, we’re in no hurry, are we?”

“Quite. Are those heavier storms to the south?”

“That shadow? That’s a lee shore, Master Lazari. A damned lee shore. We’re eight or nine miles off the southern coast of the Amathel, and fighting to get no closer. If we can punch through this mess and claw another twenty or thirty miles west-nor’west, we should be clear straight to the Cavendria, and from there it’s like a wading pond all the way to the Sea of Brass.”

“Well, that’s good to hear,” said Locke. “Rest assured, I’ve got absolutely no interest in drowning.”

4

DINNER WAS excellent and productive. Four of Volantyne’s sailors watched from the corners of the cabin while Locke and Jean packed away soup, chicken, bread, cake, and sparkling apple wine. Just after
opening the second bottle, however, Locke signaled Jean that he was about to have a clumsy moment.

Timing himself to the sway of the ship, Locke swept the new bottle off the table. It landed awkwardly and broke open, spilling cold frothing wine across his bare feet. Realizing that the bottle hadn’t shattered into the selection of knife-like shards he’d hoped for, he managed to drop his wineglass as well, with more satisfactory results.

“Ah, shit, that was good stuff,” he said loudly, slipping off his chair and crouching above the mess. He waved his hands over it, as though unsure of what to do, and in an instant a long, sturdy piece of glass was shifted from his palm to his tunic-sleeve. It was delicate work; a red stain beneath the cloth would surely draw attention.

“Don’t,” said one of the sailors, waving for one of his companions to go on deck. “Don’t touch anything. We’ll get it for you.”

Locke put his hands up and took several careful steps back.

“I’d call for more wine,” said Jean, hoisting his own glass teasingly, “but it’s possible you’ve had enough.”

“That was the motion of the ship,” said Locke.

The missing guard returned with a brush and a metal pan. He quickly swept up all the fragments.

“We’ll scrub the deck when we give the cabin a turn tomorrow, sir,” said one of the sailors.

“At least it smells nice,” said Locke.

The guards didn’t search him. Locke admired the deepening darkness through the cabin window and allowed himself the luxury of a faint smirk.

When the remains of dinner were cleared (every knife and fork and spoon accounted for) and the cabin was his and Jean’s again, Locke carefully drew out the shard of glass and set it on the table.

“Doesn’t look like much,” said Jean.

“It needs some binding,” said Locke. “And I know just where to get it.”

While Jean leaned against the cabin door, Locke used the glass shard to carefully worry the inside front cover of the copy of
The Republic of Thieves
. After a few minutes of slicing and peeling, he produced an irregular patch of the binding leather and a quantity of the
cord that had gone into the spine of the volume. He nestled the glass fragment inside the leather and wrapped it tightly around the edges, creating something like a tiny handsaw. The leather-bound side could be safely nestled against the palm of a hand, and the cutting edge of the shard could be worked against whatever needed slicing.

“Now,” said Locke softly, holding his handiwork up to the lantern-light and examining it with a mixture of pride and trepidation, “shall we take a turn on deck and enjoy the weather?”

The weather had worsened agreeably to a hard-driving autumn rain. The Amathel was whipped up to waves of six or seven feet, and lightning flashed behind the ever-moving clouds.

Locke and Jean, both wearing oilcloaks, settled down against the inner side of the jolly boat lashed upside-down to the main deck. It was about fifteen feet long, of the sort usually hung at a ship’s stern. Locke supposed that the urgent need to put the iron bars around the windows of the great cabin had forced the crew to shift the boat. It was secured to the deck via lines and ring-bolts; nothing that a crew of sailors couldn’t deal with in just a few minutes, but if he and Jean tried to free the boat conventionally it would take far too long to escape notice. Cutting was the answer—weaken the critical lines, wait for a fortuitous roll of the ship, heave the jolly boat loose, and then somehow join it after it pitched over the side.

Jean sat placidly while Locke worked with the all-important glass shard—five minutes, ten minutes, twenty minutes. Locke’s oilcloak was a blessing, making it possible to conceal the activity, but the need to hold the arm and shoulder still put all the burden on wrist and forearm. Locke worked until he ached, then carefully passed the shard to Jean.

“You two seem strangely heedless of the weather,” shouted Volantyne, moving past with a lantern. He studied them, his eyes flicking here and there for anything out of place. Eventually he relaxed, and Locke’s heart resumed its usual duties.

“We’re still warm from dinner, Captain,” said Jean. “And we’ve lived through storms on the Sea of Brass. This is a fine diversion from the monotony of our cabin.”

“Monotony, perhaps, but also security. You may remain for now,
so long as you continue to stay out of the way. We’ll have business with the sails soon enough. If we find ourselves much closer to shore, I shall require you to go below.”

“Having problems?” said Locke.

“Damned nuisance of a wind from the north and the northwest—seems to veer however’s least convenient. We’re five miles off the beach where we should be ten.”

“We are your most loyal and devoted articles of ballast, Captain,” said Locke. “Let us digest a bit longer and maybe we’ll scuttle back inside.”

As soon as Volantyne stepped away, Locke felt Jean get back to work.

“We don’t have much time,” muttered Jean. “And one or two uncut lines are as good as twenty; some things don’t break for any man’s strength.”

“I’ve done some real damage to my side,” said Locke. “All we can do is keep it up as long as possible.”

The minutes passed; sailors came and went on deck, checking for faults everywhere but directly behind the two men working desperately to cause one. The ship rolled steadily from side to side, lightning flared on every horizon, and Locke found himself growing more and more tense as the minutes passed. If this failed, he had no doubt that Volantyne’s threat to seal them up in one of the holds would be carried out immediately.

“Oh, hells,” muttered Jean. “Feel that?”

“Feel what? Oh, damn.” The ship had tilted to starboard, and the weight of the jolly boat was pressing more firmly against Locke’s back and shoulders. The lines holding it down were starting to give way sooner than he’d expected. “What the hell do we do now?”

“Hold on,” muttered Jean. The ship tilted to larboard, and there was the faintest scraping noise against the deck. Locke prayed that the tumult of the weather would drown it out for anyone not sitting directly against the boat.

Like a pendulum, the ship swung to starboard again, and this time the scraping noise rose to a screech. The press against Locke’s back became ominous, and something snapped loudly just behind him.

“Shit,” whispered Jean, “up and over!”

The two Gentlemen Bastards turned and scrambled over the back of the jolly boat at the moment its restraints completely gave way. Locke and Jean rolled off the boat with an embarrassing want of smoothness, landed hard, and the jolly boat took off across the deck, screeching and sliding toward the starboard rail.

“Ha-ha!” Locke yelled, unable to contain himself. “We’re off!”

The jolly boat slammed against the starboard rail and came to a dead stop.

“Balls,” said Locke, not quite as loudly. An instant later, the ship heeled to larboard, and Locke realized that he and Jean were directly in the only path the jolly boat could take when it slid back down the tilting deck. He gave Jean a hard shove to the left, and rolled clear the other way. A moment later the boat scraped and scudded across the deck between them, gathering momentum as it went. Locke turned, certain that it should go over the side this time—

With a creaking thump, the boat landed hard against the larboard rail. Although the rail bent, it didn’t give way completely, and the upside-down boat remained very much out of the water.

“Perelandro’s dangling cock!” Locke yelled, lurching to his feet.

“What the hells do you two think you’re doing?”
Solus Volantyne came leaping adroitly across the main deck, lantern still in hand.

“Your boat’s come free! Help us!” yelled Jean. A moment later he seemed to think better of subterfuge, walloped Volantyne across the jaw with a right hook, and grabbed the lantern as the captain went down.

“Jean! Behind you!” Locke yelled, dodging the boat for a second time as the deck tilted yet again.

A crewman had come up behind Jean with a belaying pin in hand. Jean sidestepped the man’s first attack and cracked the lantern across the top of his head. Glass shattered, and glowing white alchemical slime sprayed across the poor fellow from forehead to waist. It was generally harmless stuff, but nothing you wanted in your eyes. Moaning and glowing like a ghost out of some fairy story, the man fell against the foremast.

In front of Locke, the jolly boat slid to starboard, hit the rail at
speed, crashed through with a terrible splintering noise, and went over the side.

“Thank the gods,” Locke muttered as he ran to the gap in the rail just in time to see the boat plunge bow-first into the water, like an arrowhead, and get immediately swallowed beneath a crashing wave. “Oh,
COME ON!
”

“Jump,” hollered Jean, ducking a swing from a crewman who came at him with an oar. Jean slammed two punches into the unfortunate sailor’s ribs, and the man did a convincing imitation of a marionette with its strings cut. “Get the hell in the water!”

“The boat sank!” Locke cried, scanning the darkness in vain for a glimpse of it. Whistles were sounding from the quarterdeck and from within the ship. The whole crew would be roused against them presently. “I don’t see it!”

“Can’t hear you. Jump!” Jean dashed across the deck and gave Locke a well-meaning shove through the gap in the railing. There was no time to do anything but gasp in a surprised breath; Locke’s oilcloth fluttered around him as he fell like a wounded bat into the dark water of the Amathel.

The cold hit like a shock. He whirled within the churning blackness, fighting against his cloak and the weight of his ankle manacles. They weren’t dragging him straight down, but they would sharply increase the rate at which he would exhaust himself by kicking to keep his head up.

His face broke the surface; he choked in a breath of air and freshwater spray. The
Volantyne’s Resolve
loomed over him like a monstrous shadow, lit by the shuddering light of a dozen jumping, bobbing lanterns. A familiar dark shape detached itself from some sort of fight against the near rail, and fell toward the water.

“Jean,” Locke sputtered, “there’s no—”