Red Seas Under Red Skies

  There seemed nothing else to say, so they stood listening to the cries of the circling gulls and watched the sun sink into the far horizon, bleeding its fire into the sea. Eventually, heavy footsteps sounded on the quarterdeck stairs behind them.

  “My boys,” said Drakasha, appearing behind them and draping her arms across their shoulders, “just the pair I wanted to speak with. I’m removing you from afternoon watch duty with all the other Reds.”

  “Um…that’s generous,” said Locke.

  “No it isn’t. From now on, you’re detached to the carpenter’s mercy for afternoons. Since we’re slipping into Tal Verrar for your benefit, most of the alterations to the Orchid are going to be your responsibility. Painting, carving, rigging—you two will be rather busy.”

  “Wow,” said Locke, “that sounds like an absolutely grand way to spend the voyage.”

  It wasn’t.

  8

  “LAND HO,” cried the early evening foremast watch. “Land and fire one point on the starboard bow!”

  “Fire?” Locke looked up from his hand in the card game that had broken out in the undercastle. “Shit!” He dropped his cards to the deck, forfeiting his seven-solari bet for the round. Nearly a year’s pay for an honest Verrari laborer; common stakes for the games that took place after shares were paid out. There was a lot of spare coinage floating around the ship, since they’d left Port Prodigal in such a hurry.

  Emerging from the undercastle, he nearly slammed into Delmastro.

  “Lieutenant, is that Tal Verrar?”

  “Has to be.”

  “And the fire? Is that certain?” Fire in the city could mean some sort of disaster, or it could mean civil war. Chaos. Stragos might already be dead, or besieged, or even victorious—and therefore in no further need of Locke or Jean.

  “It’s the twenty-first, Ravelle.”

  “I know what bloody day it is; I just—oh. Oh!”

  The twenty-first of Aurim; the Festa Iono, the grand pageant of the Lord of the Grasping Waters. Locke sighed with relief. Away from the usual rhythms of the city, he’d all but forgotten about the holiday. At the Festa Iono, the Verrari gave thanks for Iono’s influence on the city’s fortunes by ceremonially burning old ships while thousands of drunkards made a mess of the streets and canals. Locke had only ever seen it from the balconies of the Sinspire, but it was a lively time. Hell, that would make slipping into the city easier; there’d be a thousand things going on to keep the watch busy.

  “All hands,” came the cry from astern. “All hands at the waist! Captain wants a word!”

  Locke grinned. In the event of an all-hands call during a card game, the game had to stop, and everyone with a stake in the pot got it back. His seven solari would be returning home soon enough.

  The Orchids mustered noisily at the waist, and after a few minutes were waved to silence by Drakasha. The captain set an empty cask beside the mainmast, and Lieutenant Delmastro leapt atop it, wearing a respectable overcoat from the ship’s store of fine clothing.

  “For the rest of the night,” she shouted, “we’re the Chimera, and we’ve never even heard of the Poison Orchid. I’m the captain! I’ll be pacing the quarterdeck if anyone needs anything, and Drakasha will be in her cabin unless things go to hell.

  “If another ship hails us, I’ll be the one that answers. The rest of you pretend that you don’t speak Therin. Our task is to deliver two of our new friends to shore, for a job that’ll be important to us all. Ravelle, Valora—we’ll send you out in the same boat you donated to our cause all those weeks ago.” She paused to allow a sudden outburst of chatter to die off. “We should drop anchor in the next two hours. If you’re not back by sunrise, this ship will be gone—and we’ll never come within five hundred miles of this city again.”

  “We understand,” said Locke.

  “Once the anchor’s down,” continued Delmastro, “I’ll want double watches aloft. Rig razor nets on both sides for a quick raise, but leave them down. Lay polearms at the sides, up against the rails, and ready sabers at both the masts. If a customs boat or anything else carrying a uniform tries to pay us a visit, we’ll invite them aboard and detain them for the night. If anything more than that troubles us, we repel boarders, lay on the canvas, and run like hell.”

  There was a general murmur of approval to that idea.

  “That’s it. Stand in to Tal Verrar. Mumchance, put us about a mile off the Emerald Galleries. And raise an Ashmiri gray ensign at the taffrail.”

  Ashmere, though lacking a merchant or military fleet of its own, did a brisk business in registrations of convenience for smugglers, bounty-privateers, and tariff-dodging merchants. Nobody would look twice at them for the sake of that ensign. More importantly, nobody would approach merely for the sake of making small talk with fellow countrymen far from home. Locke approved. And anchoring in the waters southeast of the city would give them a good approach to the Castellana, so they could drop in on Stragos without lurking too close to the crowded marinas or the main anchorage.

  “Hey,” said Utgar, slapping Locke and Jean on the backs, “you two, what the hell are you getting yourselves into? You want a bodyguard?”

  “Ravelle’s the only bodyguard I need,” said Jean with a smirk.

  “Fair enough. I’ll give you that. But what are you sticking your noses into, hmm? Something dangerous?”

  “Probably not,” said Locke. “Look, Drakasha will spin the full tale, probably sooner than you think. For tonight, let’s just say we’re on ordinary errands.”

  “Saying hello to Grandmother,” said Jean. “Paying off Uncle’s gambling debts. Picking up three loaves of bread and a bushel of onions at the Night Market.”

  “Fine, fine. Keep your secrets. Rest of us’ll stay behind and be bored, right?”

  “Not likely,” said Locke. “This ship’s full of little surprises, isn’t it?”

  “True enough,” said Utgar, chuckling. “True enough, hey. Well, be careful. Eyes of the gods upon you and all that.”

  “Thanks.” Locke scratched his beard, and then snapped his fingers. “Hell. I nearly forgot something. Jerome, Utgar, see you in a bit.”

  He jogged aft, dodging Blue watch work parties and bored Reds helping haul forth weapons from the arms lockers. He took the quarterdeck stairs in two quick leaps, slid down the companionway rails, and knocked loudly on Drakasha’s cabin door.

  “It’s open,” she shouted.

  “Captain,” said Locke, closing the door behind him, “I need to borrow the money that was in my sea chest again.”

  Drakasha was lounging on her hammock with Paolo and Cosetta, reading to them from a heavy book that looked an awful lot like a Wise Mariner’s Practical Lexicon. “Technically, that money got cut up into shares,” she said, “but I can give you the equivalent out of the ship’s purse. All of it?”

  “Two hundred and fifty solari should do. Oh. It, um, won’t be coming back with me.”

  “Fascinating,” she said. “That’s a definition of ‘borrow’ that doesn’t exactly compel me to get up from this hammock. On your way out—”

  “Captain, Stragos is just one half of tonight’s business. I need to keep Requin purring, too. He has the power to crush this scheme like an insect if I don’t. Besides—if I tickle his fancy, there’s one more useful item I might be able to squeeze out of him, now that I think of it.”

  “So you need a bribe.”

  “Between friends we call them considerations. Come on, Drakasha. Consider it an investment in our desired outcome.”

  “For the sake of my peace and quiet, fine. I’ll have it waiting for you when you leave the ship.”

  “You’re too—

  “I am not even remotely too kind. Begone.”

  9

  THEY’D BEEN away for seven weeks that felt like a lifetime.

  Standing at the larboard rail, staring once again at the islands and towers of Tal Verrar, Locke felt anxiety and melancholy mingling like liquors. The clouds were l
ow and dark above the city, reflecting the orange light of the festival fire burning in the main anchorage.

  “Ready for this?” asked Jean.

  “Ready and sweating heavily,” said Locke.

  They were dressed in borrowed finery, linen caps, and cloaks. The cloaks were too warm, but not so rare on the streets of many neighborhoods; they meant that the wearer was probably carrying weapons, and not to be trifled with. Hopefully, the added clothing would help protect them from a casual glimpse by anyone inconvenient who might recognize them.

  “Heave out,” cried Oscarl, in charge of the party putting their boat over the side. With the creak of rope and tackle, the little craft swung out into darkness and splashed down into the water. Utgar shimmied down the boarding net to unfasten everything and prepare the oars. As Locke stepped to the entry port and prepared to go down, Delmastro caught his arm.

  “Whatever else happens,” she whispered, “just bring him back.”

  “I won’t fail,” said Locke. “And neither will he.”

  “Zamira said to give you this.” Delmastro passed over a heavy leather purse, packed tight with coins. Locke nodded his gratitude and slipped it into an inner cloak pocket.

  As Locke crawled down to the boat, he passed Utgar, who gave a cheery salute and kept climbing. Locke hopped down into the boat, but continued clinging to the boarding net so he could stand upright. He glanced up, and by the light of the ship’s lanterns he saw Jean and Ezri saying farewell with a kiss. She whispered something to him, and then they parted.

  “This is infinitely preferable to the last time we shared this boat alone,” said Jean as they settled onto the rowing bench and fit the oars to their locks.

  “You told her your real name, didn’t you?”

  “What?” Jean’s eyes grew wide, and then he scowled. “Is that a guess?”

  “I’m not much of a lip-reader, but the last thing she said to you had one syllable, not two.”

  “Oh,” sighed Jean. “Well, aren’t you the clever little bastard.”

  “Yes on all three counts, actually.”

  “I did, and I’m not sorry—”

  “Gods, I’m not angry, Jean. I’m just showing off.” They began to row together, pulling hard, driving the boat across the dark, choppy water toward the channel between the Galezzo District and the Emerald Galleries.

  Minutes of rowing passed without conversation; the oars creaked, the water splashed, and the Poison Orchid fell away to stern, the whiteness of her furled sails vanishing into the darkness, until all that remained of her was a faint constellation of lantern lights.

  “The alchemist,” said Locke, without any warning.

  “Huh?”

  “Stragos’ alchemist. He’s the key to this mess.”

  “If by ‘key’ you mean ‘cause’—”

  “No, listen. How likely is it that Stragos is ever going to just accidentally leave us the glasses he uses to give us our antidote? Or let a dose slip out of his pocket?”

  “Easy question,” said Jean. “It’s bloody impossible.”

  “Right. So it’s no use waiting for him to make a mistake—we’ve got to make contact with that alchemist.”

  “He’s one of the archon’s personal retinue,” said Jean. “Maybe the most important person in Stragos’ service, if Stragos makes a habit of doing this frequently. I doubt he has a nice, convenient, out-of-the way house where we can pay him a visit. He probably lives at the Mon Magisteria.”

  “But there’s got to be something we can do,” said Locke. “The man has to have a price. Think of what we’ve got at the Sinspire, or what we could get with Drakasha’s help.”

  “I’ll admit it’s the best idea yet,” said Jean. “Which isn’t saying much.”

  “Eyes wide, ears open, and hope in the Crooked Warden,” Locke muttered.

  On this side of the city, Tal Verrar’s inner harbor was thick with pleasure boats, barges, and hired gondolas. The wealthy (and the not-so-wealthy who didn’t care whether or not they woke up without a centira the next day) were in full migration from the professional crescents to the bars and coffeehouses of the Emerald Galleries. Locke and Jean slipped into the stream and rowed against the prevailing current, dodging larger vessels and exchanging choice vulgarities with the shouting, leering, bottle-throwing customers on some of the rowdier barges.

  Having dished out more abuse than they’d received, they slipped at last between the Artificers’ Crescent and the Alchemists’ Crescent, admiring the vivid blue and green fireballs that the alchemists were hurling, presumably in support of the festa (though one never knew) forty or fifty feet into the air over their private docks. The prevailing wind was toward Locke and Jean, and as they rowed they found themselves pursued by a brimstone-scented rain of sparks and burnt paper scraps.

  Their destination was easy enough to find; at the northwestern end of the Castellana lay the entrance grotto to the Elderglass caverns from which they’d emerged with Merrain, the first night she’d kidnapped them on the archon’s behalf.

  Security at the archon’s private landing had been enhanced. As Locke and Jean rowed around the final bend into the prismatic glass hollow, a dozen Eyes hefted crossbows and knelt behind curved iron shields, five feet high, set into the floor to provide cover. Behind them a squad of regular Verrari soldiers manned a ballista, a minor siege engine capable of shattering their boat with a ten-pound quarrel. An Eye officer pulled a chain leading into a wall aperture, presumably ringing an alarm above.

  “Use of this landing is forbidden,” shouted the officer.

  “Please listen carefully,” shouted Locke. The dull roar of the waterfall high above echoed throughout the cavern, and there was no room for error. “We have a message for the waiting lady.”

  Their boat bumped up against the edge of the landing. It was disconcerting, thought Locke, having so many crossbows large and small dedicated to their intimidation. However, the Eye officer stepped over and knelt beside them. His voice echoed metallically through the speaking holes of his featureless mask.

  “You’re here on the waiting lady’s business?”

  “We are,” said Locke. “Tell her precisely this: ‘Two sparks were kindled, and two bright fires returned.’”

  “I shall,” said the officer. “In the meantime…”

  After carefully setting their crossbows down, half a dozen Eyes stepped out from behind their shields to haul Locke and Jean out of their boat. They were restrained and patted down; their boot daggers were confiscated, along with Locke’s bag of gold. An Eye examined it, and then passed it to the officer.

  “Solari, sir. Confiscate it?”

  “No,” said the officer. “Take them to the waiting lady’s chamber, and give it back. If money alone could kill the Protector, the Priori would have already done it, eh?”

  10

  “YOU DID what to the Red Messenger?”

  Maxilan Stragos was red-faced with wine, exertion, and surprise. The archon was dressed more sumptuously than Locke had ever seen him, in a vertically striped cape of sea-green silk that alternated with cloth-of-gold strips, over a coat and breeches that also gleamed gold. He wore rings on all ten of his fingers, set alternately with rubies and sapphires, very close approximations of the Tal Verrar colors. He stood before Locke and Jean in a tapestry-walled chamber on the first floor of the Mon Magisteria, attended by a pair of Eyes. If Locke and Jean had not been granted chairs, neither had they been trussed up. Or placed in the sweltering chamber.

  “We, ah, used it to initiate successful contact with pirates.”

  “By losing it to them.”

  “In a word, yes.”

  “And Caldris is dead?”

  “For some time.”

  “Now tell me, Lamora, just what sort of reaction were you hoping for when you brought me this news?”

  “Well, a fucking heart attack would have been nice, but I’d settle for a bit of patience while I explain further.”

  “Yes,” said th
e archon. “Do.”

  “When the Messenger was taken by pirates, all of us aboard were made prisoners.” Locke had decided that the specific details of injuries and scrub watches and so forth could be safely left out of the story.

  “By whom?”

  “Drakasha.”

  “Zamira lives, does she? With her old Poison Orchid?”

  “Yes,” said Locke. “It’s in fine condition, and in fact it’s currently riding at anchor about two miles, um…” He pointed with a finger at what he believed to be south. “…that way.”

  “She dares?”

  “She’s practicing an obscure technique called ‘disguise,’ Stragos.”

  “So you’re…part of her crew now?”

  “Yes. Those of us taken from the Messenger were given a chance to prove our intentions by storming the next prize Drakasha took. You won’t see the Messenger again, as it’s been sold to a sort of, um, wrecker baron. But at least now we’re in a position to give you what you want.”

  “Are you?” The expression on Stragos’ face went from annoyance to plain avarice in an eyeblink. “How…refreshing to hear you deliver such a report, in lieu of vulgarity and complaint.”

  “Vulgarity and complaint are my special talents. But listen—Drakasha has agreed to drum up the scare you want. If we get our antidote tonight, by the end of the week you’ll have reports of raids at every point of the compass. It’ll be like dropping a shark in a public bath.”

  “What do you mean, precisely, by ‘Drakasha has agreed’?”

  Improvising a fictional motive for Zamira was elementary; Locke could have done it in his sleep. “I told her the truth,” he said. “The rest was easy. Obviously, once our job is done, you’ll send your navy south to kick sixteen shades of shit out of every Ghostwind pirate you find. Except the one that actually started the mess, who will conveniently hunt elsewhere for a few months. And once you’ve got your grand little war sewn up, she goes back home to find that her former rivals are on the bottom of the ocean. Alas.”