Red Seas Under Red Skies

1

Dark water across the bow, water at the sides, water in the air, falling with the weight of lead pellets against Locke's oilcloak. The rain seemed to come first from one side and then another, never content to fall straight down, as the Red Messenger rocked back and forth in the grey hands of the gale.

"Master Valora!" Locke held fast to the safety lines knotted around the mainmast (as they were knotted all around the deck) and bellowed down the main-deck hatch. "How much water in the well?" Jean's answer came up a few moments later: "Two feet!" "Very good, Master Valora!"

Locke caught a glimpse of Bald Mazucca staring at him and he suppressed a feeling of unease. He knew that Caldris's sudden death the day before had been taken by the crew as an omen of the worst sort; they were openly muttering about women and cats, and the focal point of all their unkind attention was one Orrin Ravelle, whose status as captain and saviour was steadily fraying. Locke turned toward the helmsman and found him once again squinting ahead into the stinging rain, seemingly absorbed in his duty.

Two cloaked sailors stood at the second wheel behind Mazucca; in seas this strong, control of the rudder could easily fly free from the grip of a single man. Their faces were dark shadows within their hoods; they had nothing friendly to say to Locke, either.

The wind screamed through the lines and yards overhead, where most of the sails were tightly furled. They continued to push vaguely south-west under the press of nothing but close-reefed topsails. They were heeled over so far to starboard that Mazucca and his assistants were not merely standing in wait at their wheels. The crashing sea demanded their constant, tedious concentration to keep the ship stable, and still the sea was rising. A rush of grey-green water ran over Locke's bare toes and he sucked in breath; he'd abandoned his boots for the more certain footing of unprotected feet. Locke watched that water roll across the deck, unwelcome but constant guest, before it poured away down the scuppers and leaked past the edges of the storm-canvas laid beneath the hatch gratings. In truth the water was warm, but here in the sunless heart of the storm, with the wind like knives in the air, his imagination made it feel cold. "Captain Ravelle!"

Jabril was approaching along the larboard rail, storm-lantern in one night-black hand. "It might" ve been advisable to take down the fuckin" topgallant masts a few hours ago," he shouted.

Since Locke had risen that morning, Jabril had offered at least half a dozen rebukes and reminders without prompting. Locke stared upward at the very tips of the main— and foremast, nearly lost in the swirling haze overhead. "I gave it some thought, Jabril, but it didn't seem necessary." According to some of what Locke had read, even without sails flying from their yards, the topgallant masts might give unwanted leverage to deadly storm winds, or even be lost over the side as the vessel bucked and heaved. He" d been too busy to think of striking them down.

"It'll seem pretty gods-damned necessary if they come down and take more of the rigging with them!" "I might have them struck down in a while, Jabril, if I think it proper."

"If you think it proper?" Jabril gaped at him. "Are you bereft of your bloody senses, Ravelle? The time to strike the bastards was hours ago; now the hands we have are in sore need elsewhere and the fuckin" weather's up! We might try it only were the ship in peril… but damn me, she soon might be! Have you not been out this far on die Sea of Brass before, Captain?"

"Aye, of course I have." Locke sweated within his oilcloak. Had he known the real extent of Jabril's sea-wisdom he might have tasked the man with minding such details, but now it was too late, and some of his incompetence was laid bare. "Forgive me, Jabril. Caldris was a good friend. His loss has left me a bit off-kilter!"

"Indeed! As the loss of the fuckin" ship might leave us all more than a touch off-kilter, sir."Jabril turned and began making his way forward along the larboard rail, then after a few seconds whirled back to Locke. "You and I both know for a damn truth there's not a single bloody cat on board, Ravelle!"

Locke hung his head and clung to the mainmast. It was too much to hope that Mazucca and the hands standing behind him hadn't heard that. But of course, at his glance, they said nothing and betrayed nothing, staring fixedly ahead into the storm, as though trying to imagine he was not there at all.

2

Belowdecks was a nightmare. At least on deck one had masts and crashing seas to offer some perspective on one's place. Down here, in the enveloping fug of sweat, urine and vomit, the shuddering walls themselves seemed to tilt and lurch at malicious whim. Streams of water poured down from hatchways and gratings despite the weather precautions the crew had taken. The main deck echoed with the muffled howling of the wind and the clanking sound of the pumps rose from the orlop below.

Those pumps were fine Verrari gear-work, capable of heaving water up and dashing it over the side at some speed, but they demanded eight-man shifts in seas like this, and the labour was back-breaking. Even a crew in good health would have found the job onerous; it was just plain bad luck for this bunch that so few of them had come out of prison at anything near their full strength.

"The water gains, Captain," said a sailor Locke couldn't recognize in the near-darkness. He" d popped his head up the hatchway from the orlop. "Three feet in the well. Aspel says we busted a seam somewhere; says he needs men for a repair party."

Aspel was their approximation of a ship's carpenter. "He'll have them," Locke said, though from where, he knew not. Ten doing important work on deck, eight at the pumps… damn near their time to be relieved, too. Six or seven still too bloody weak to be of any use save as ballast. A squad in the orlop hold with Jean, resecuring casks of food and water after three had come loose and broken open. Eight sleeping fitfully on the main deck just a few feet away, having been up all night. Two with broken bones, trying to dull the pain with an unauthorized ration of wine. Their rudimentary scheme of watches was unravelling in the face of the storm's demands, and Locke struggled to subsume a sharp pang of panic. "Fetch Master Valora from the orlop," he said at last. "Tell him he and his men can look to the stores again once they" ve given Aspel a hand." "Aye, sir." "Captain Ravelle!"

Another shout rose from below as the first sailor disappeared, and Locke stood over the hatchway to answer: "What passes?"

"Our time at the bloody pumps, sir! We can't keep up this gods-damned pace for ever. We need relief. And we need food!"

"You shall have them both," said Locke, "in but ten minutes." Though from where, again, he knew not; all his choices were sick, injured, exhausted or otherwise engaged. He turned to make his way back up to the deck. He could swap the deck-watch and the men at the pumps; it would bring joy to neither group, but it might serve to nudge the ship ahead of total disaster for a few more precious hours.

3

"What do you mean, you haven't been turning the glasses?"

"Captain Ravelle, sir, beggin" your double-fuckin" pardon, but we ain't had no time to turn the glasses nor mind the log since… hell, I suppose I can't say. Awhile now"

Bald Mazucca and his mate looked more as if they were clinging to their wheel for dear life than steering the ship with it. Two teams of two had the wheels; the air was a frenzy of howling wind and stinging rain. The sea, cresting twenty feet or more, slammed past the bow again and again, washing the deck white and sluicing past Locke's ankles. At long last thed'r been forced to abandon a southerly course, and now they were dead west before the wind, pulled by one lonely storm forecourse. They scudded again and again through waves high as houses.

A bolt of yellow flitting past in the periphery of Locke's vision was a storm-lantern flying free and vanishing over the side, soon to be a curiosity for the fish far below.

Locke hauled himself over to the binnacle and flipped through the damp pages of the master's log; the last hasty entry read: 3rd hr afternoon 7 Festal 78 Morgante s/sw 8 kts please may Iono spare these souls Locke couldn't remember when it had last felt like the third hour of the afternoon. The storm turned high noon as dark as the insides of a shark's gullet, and the crackle of lightning gave uncanny illumination to what might have been deep evening. They were as unfixed in time as they were in place.

"At least we know we're somewhere on the Sea of Brass," he shouted above the din. "We'll be through this mess soon enough, and then we'll take sightings to fix our latitude."

If only that was as easy done as said. Fear and exhaustion had set Locke's senses reeling; the world was grey and whirling in every direction, and he'd thrown up his last cold meal at the taffrail… gods knew when. Hours before, probably. If a Bondsmage of Karthain had appeared on deck at that moment and offered to use magic to steer the ship to safety, Locke might have kissed their boots.

There was a sudden terrible sound overhead: an explosive crack followed by the warbling hiss of a broken line lashing the air. Seconds later came a louder crash, and then a snap-snap-snap like the noise of a whip biting flesh.

"Ware above," cried Jabril from somewhere forward; Locke and the ship lurched as one from another hammering wave. It was this loss of footing that saved Locke's life. A shadow swooped past his left shoulder as he slipped to the wet deck, sputtering. There was a splintering crash, screams and sudden blackness as something slick and yielding enshrouded him.

Sail canvas! Locke shoved at it, working his way out from beneath it. Strong hands grabbed his forearms and hauled him to his feet. They belonged to Jean, who was braced against the starboard quarterdeck rail. Locke had slid a few feet to his right with the fall. Muttering thanks, he turned to see exactly what he feared.

The main topgallant mast had torn away. Its stays must have been snapped by some trick of wind or the ship's tumult. It had plunged forward and down, unfurling and trailing sail from its yard as it went, before a mess of tangled rigging had snapped it backward like a pendulum just above the deck. It covered the wheels, and the four men previously manning them were nowhere to be seen. Locke and Jean moved in unison, fighting across wet canvas and torn rope, while smaller pieces of debris continued to rain down around them. Already Locke could feel the ship moving in an unhealthy fashion beneath them. The wheels must be seized, the rudder put right instantly.

"All hands," Locke cried with every ounce of conviction he possessed. "All hands on deck! All hands to save the ship!"

Jean heaved against the fallen topgallant spar, bracing himself against the mainmast, letting loose a howl of sheer exertion. Wood and canvas shifted, then crashed to the deck. Some of the handles of the two wheels had been reduced to splinters, but the wheels themselves were substantially intact. Locke could now see Bald Mazucca crawling slowly to his feet behind them; another man lay on deck with the top of his head plainly smashed in.

"Seize the wheel," Locke cried, looking around for more help, "Seize the bloody wheel!" He found himself tangled withjabril. "Captain,"Jabril hollered straight into his face, "we are like to broach!"

Oh good, thought Locke, at least I know what that means. He gave Jabril a shove toward the wheels and grabbed onto one beside Jean. "Helm a-larboard," Locke coughed, confident of that much. Groaning with strain, he and Jean fought to heave the wheel in the proper direction. The Red Messengerwas slipping to lee at an angle, down into the troughs of the waves; in moments she'd be broadside to them and all but lost. A dark wave, impossibly heavy, surged over the starboard rail and doused them all, the merest foretaste of what awaited failure.

But the resistance of the wheel lessened as Jabril found his place behind them and heaved; in seconds he was joined by Mazucca, and inch by straining inch Locke felt the ship's stern come round again to larboard, until her bow was knifing into the waves once more. Thed'r bought time to contemplate the disaster the toppling mast had made of the rigging.

Men boiled out of the deck hatches, inhuman shapes in the dancing light of storm-lanterns. Lightning scorched the darkness above them. Orders were issued, from Locke and Jean and Jabril, with no heed paid to whose was the higher authority. The minutes became hours, and the hours felt like days. They fought on together in an eternity of grey chaos, cold and exhausted and terrified, against the screaming winds above and the hammering waters below.

4

"Three feet of water in the well and holding, Captain." Aspel delivered his report with a makeshift bandage wrapped around his head, the sleeve of someone's jacket roughly slashed from its parent garment.

"Very good," said Locke, holding himself up at the mainmast much as Caldris had days before. Every joint and muscle in Locke's body announced their discomfort; he felt like a rag doll full of broken glass, and he was soaked into the bargain. But in that he was no different from any of the survivors aboard the Red Messenger. As Chains had once said, feeling like you wanted desperately to die was fine evidence that you had yet to do so.

The summer's-end storm was a receding line of darkness on the north-western horizon; it had spat them out a few hours earlier. Here, the seas were running at five or six feet and the skies were still ashen grey, but this was a paradise following the tempest. Enough funereal light filtered down from above for Locke to guess that it was day, after some fashion.

He surveyed the shambles of the deck: lifelines and debris from the rigging were tangled everywhere. Scraps of canvas fluttered in the wind, and sailors were tripping over fallen block and tackle, cursing as they went. They were a crew of ghosts, haggard and clumsy with fatigue. Jean laboured at the forecastle to conjure their first warm meal in living memory.

"Damnation," Locke muttered. Their escape had not been without price: three swept clean overboard, four seriously injured, two dead including Caldris. Mirlon, the cook, had been the man at the wheel when the main topgallant mast had crashed down upon him like a divine spear and shattered his skull.

"No, Captain," said Jabril from behind him. "Not if we can do right by them."

"What? Locke whirled, confused… then suddenly he remembered. "Oh, yes, of course."

"The fallen, Captain," said Jabril, enunciating as though to a child. "The fallen haunt our decks and cannot rest until we send them off proper." "Aye," said Locke. "Let's do that."

Caldris and Mirlon lay by the larboard entry port, wrapped in canvas. Pale packages bound with tarred rope, awaiting their final sendoff. Locke and Jabril knelt beside them. "Say the words, Ravelle," muttered Jabril. "You can do that much for them. Send their souls on down to Father Stormbringer and give them rest."

Locke stared at the two wrapped corpses and felt a new pain in his heart. Nearly overcome with fatigue and shame, he put his head in his hands and thought quickly.

By tradition, ships" captains could be proclaimed lay priests of Iono, with a minimum of study at any proper temple to the Lord of the Grasping Waters. At sea, they could then lead prayers, perform marriages and even give death-blessings. While Locke knew some interior ritual of Iono's Temple, he wasn't consecrated in Iono's service. He was a priest of the Crooked Warden, and here at sea, a thousand miles out into Iono's domain, aboard a ship that was already damned for spurning his mandates… there was no way in heavens or hells Locke could presume to give these men Iono's rest. For the sake of their souls, he'd have to invoke the only power he had any pull with.

"Crooked Warden, Unnamed Thirteenth, your servant calls. Place your eyes upon the passing of this man, Caldris bal Comar, Iono's servant, sworn to steal goods beneath the red flag, therefore sharing a corner of your kingdom—"

"What are you doingV Jabril hissed, seizing Locke by the arm. Locke shoved him backward.

"The only thing I can do," said Locke. "The only honest blessing I can give these men, understand? Don't fucking interfere again." He reached back down to touch Caldris's wrapped body. "We deliver this man, body and spirit, to the realm of your brother Iono, mighty lord of the sea." Locke figured a little flattery never went amiss in these matters. "Lend him aid. Carry his soul to She who weighs us all. This we pray with hopeful hearts."

Locke gestured for Jabril's help. The muscular man remained deadly silent as they lifted Caldris's body together and heaved it out through the entry port. Even before he heard the splash, Locke reached back down to the other canvas bundle.

"Crooked Warden, Thiefwatcher, your servant calls. Place your eyes upon the passing of this man, Mirlon, Iono's servant, sworn to steal goods beneath a red flag, therefore sharing a corner of your kingdom…"

5

The mutiny came the next morning, while Locke slept senseless in his hammock, still wearing the wet clothes that had seen him through the storm.

He was awakened by the sound of someone slamming his door and shooting home the bolt. Bleary-eyed and gasping in confusion, he all but fell out of his hammock and had to use his sea-chest to push himself unsteadily to his feet.

"Arm yourself," said Jean, backing away from the door with both of his hatchets in hand. "We've got a problem."

That brought Locke to full wakefulness sharply enough. He buckled on his sword-belt in haste, noting with satisfaction that the heavy shutters over his stern windows were still drawn. Light peeked in around the edges; was it day already? Gods, he'd slept the whole night away in one dreamless blink. "There's, ah, some of them that aren't happy with me, aren't there?" "None of them are happy with us."

"I think they're surely angrier with me than they are with you. I think you could still make it as one of them; it's my blood they'll be after, and you can claim to be as much my dupe as they were. Take me out to them. You might still pull this scheme off and get the antidote from Stragos."

"Are you mad?" Jean glared back at Locke, but didn't step away from the door.

"You're a strange fellow, brother." Locke contemplated his Verrari sea-officer's sabre uneasily; in his hands it would be no less a showpiece than it was now, in its scabbard. "First you want to punish yourself for something that's not your fault, and now you won't let me slip you out of a mistake that's entirely mine."

"Who the hell are you to lecture me, Locke? First you insist that I stay despite the real danger I pose to you, and now you beg me to betray you for gain? Fuck you. You're ten pints of crazy in a one-pint glass."

"That describes us both, Jean." Locke smiled despite himself; there was something refreshing in being returned to danger of his own making after the indifferent malice of the storm. "Though you're more of a carafe than a pint glass. I knew you wouldn't buy it." "Too gods-damned right."

"I will say that I would" ve liked to have seen Stragos's face when we did whatever we were going to do to him," said Locke. "And I would" ve liked to know what it was when the clever moment came."

"Well," said Jean, "as long as we're wishing, I would have liked a million solari and a parrot that speaks Throne Therin. But they're not coming, take my meaning?"

"Maybe the fact that this scuppers Stragos's precious little plan is fuck-you enough."

"Now, Locke." Jean sighed, and his voice softened. "Maybe they'll want to talk first. And if they want to talk to you, with your wits about you, we might still have a chance."

"Doubtless you're the only man aboard this ship who'd still express confidence in anything I do." Locke sighed. "RAVELLE!" The shout came from the companionway. "You didn't kill any of them yet, did you, Jean?" "Not yet, no."

"RAVELLE! I KNOW YOU" RE IN THERE, AND I KNOW YOU CAN HEAR ME!"

Locke stepped up to the cabin door and shouted back through it: "Marvellously clever, Jabril! You" ve tracked me unerringly to the cabin in which I" ve been fast asleep and motionless all bloody night. Who tipped you off?" "We have all the bows, Ravelle!"

"Well, damn," said Locke. "You must have raided the weapons lockers, then. I suppose I was hoping we could have one of those pleasant dancing mutinies, or maybe a singing-and-card-games mutiny, you know?"

"There's thirty-two of us as can still move, Ravelle! Two of you in there, no food, no water… the ship's ours. How long do you figure on staying in there?"

"It's a fine place," shouted Locke. "Got a hammock, a table, nice view out through the stern window… big door between us and the rest of you—"

"Which we can smash at any time, and you know it." Jabril lowered his voice; a creak of shifting weight in the companionway told Locke he'd stepped right up to the other side of the door. "You're glib, Ravelle, but glib's no good against ten bows and twenty blades." "I'm not the only man in here, Jabril." "Aye. And believe me, there's not one among us who'd like to face Master Valora; not with fuckin" four-to-one odds. But the odds is better than that. Like I said, we got all the bows. You want it to come down hard, we'll do what it takes."

Locke bit the inside of his cheek, thinking. "You swore an oath to me, Jabril. An oath to me as your captain! After I gave you your lives back."

"We all did, and we meant it, but you're not what you said you was. You're no sea-officer. Caldris was the real thing, gods rest him, but I don't know what the fuck you are. You deceived us, so the oath don't stand."

"I see." Locke pondered, snapped his fingers and continued: "So you would have kept to the oath, had I… ah, been what I claimed to be?" "Aye, Ravelle. Fuckin" right we would" ve."

"I believe you," said Locke. "I believe you're no oath-breaker, Jabril. So I have a proposal. Jerome and I are willing to come peaceably out of the cabin. We'll come up on the deck, and we'll talk. We'll be pleased to hear your grievances, every last one. And we'll keep our hands empty, so long as you swear an oath to give us that much. Safe conduct to the deck, and an open talk. For everyone."

"Won't be no "hearing grievances", Ravelle. It'll just be us telling you how it's to be."

"As you wish," said Locke. "Call it whatever you like. Give me your oath of safe passage, and it'll happen. We'll come out right now."

Locke strained for several seconds to hear anything from the companionway.

At last, Jabril spoke: "Come up with empty hands," he said, "and don't make no unkind moves, especially not Valora. Do that, and I swear before all the gods, you'll come up to the deck safe. Then we'll talk." "Well," whispered Jean, "at least you got us that much."

"Yeah. Maybe just a chance to die in the sunlight rather than the shade, though." He considered changing out of his wet clothes before going up on deck, then shook his head. "Hell with it. Jabril!" "Aye?" "We're opening the door."

6

The world above the deck was one of rich blue skies and bright sunlight; a world Locke had almost forgotten over the previous days. He marvelled at it, though Jabril led them to the waist under the eyes of thirty men with drawn swords and nocked arrows. Lines of white foamed on the sea at the horizons, but around the Red Messenger the waves rolled softly, and the breeze was a welcome kiss of warmth against Locke's skin.

"I'll be damned," he whispered. "We sailed right back into summer again."

"Stands to reason that we got blown a ways south even in the storm," said Jean. "We must have passed the Prime Divisor. Latitude naught."

The ship was still something of a shambles; Locke spotted makeshift and incomplete repairs everywhere. Mazucca stood calmly at the wheel, the only unarmed man on deck. The ship was making steerage way under nothing but its main topsail. The mainmast rigging would need one hell of a sorting-out before it would carry any useful canvas; the fallen topgallant mast was nowhere to be seen.

Locke and Jean stood before the mainmast, waiting. Up on the forecastle, men were looking down on them from behind their bows. Thankfully, none of them had drawn their strings back — they looked nervous, and Locke trusted neither their judgment nor their muscle tone. Jabril leaned back against the ship's boat and pointed at Locke. "You fuckin" lied to us, Ravelle!"

The crew shouted and jeered, shaking their weapons, hurling insults. Locke held up his hand to speak, but Jabril cut him off. "You said it yourself, down below. I got you to bloody admit it, so say it again, for all to hear. You ain't no sea-officer."

"It's true," said Locke. "I'm not a sea-officer. That should be obvious to everyone by now."

"What the hell are you, then?" Jabril and the men looked genuinely confused. "You had a Verrari uniform. You got in and out of the Windward Rock. The Archon took this ship, and you got it back. What's the gods-damned game?"

Locke realized that an unsatisfactory answer to this question would have hard consequences; those things really did add up to a mystery too considerable to brush off. He scratched his chin, then put up his hands. "Okay, look. Only some of what I told you was a He. I, ah, I really was an officer in the Archon's service, just not a naval officer. I was one of his captains of intelligence."

"Intelligence?" cried Aspel, who held a bow atop the forecastle. "What, you mean spies and things like that?"

"Exactly," said Locke. "Spies. And things like that. I hate the Archon. I was sick of his service. I figured… I figured with a crew and a ship I had a sure way to get the hell out and give him grief at the same time. Caldris came along to do all the real work, while I was learning."

"Aye," said Jabril. "But that's not what happened. You didn't just fie to us about what you was." He turned his back to Locke and Jean to address the crew. "He brought us out to sea without a woman aboard the ship!"

Scowls, catcalls, rude gestures and no few hand-signs against evil. The crew were not well pleased to be reminded of that subject.

"Hold fast," shouted Locke. "I meant to bring women with us; I had four women on my list. Didn't you see them at the Windward Rock? Other prisoners? They all went down with a fever. They had to be put back ashore, don't you see?"

"If that was you," shouted Jabril, "maybe you thought of it once, but what did you do to fix it when they fell sick?"

"The Archon took the bloody prisoners, not me," said Locke. "I had to work with what that left me. It left meyouV

"So it did," said Jabril, "and then you fuckin" brought us out here without one single cat neither!"

"Caldris told me to get some," said Locke. "Forgive me, I just… I said I'm not a sailor, right? I got busy sneaking out of Tal Verrar and I left them behind. I didn't understand!"

"Indeed," said Jabril. "You had no business out here if you didn't know the bloody mandates! Because of you, this ship is cursed! We're lucky to be alive, those of us that is. Five men paid for what was rightly your sin! Your ignorance of what's due Iono Stormfather by those that sail his waters!" "Lord of the Grasping Waters shield us!" said another sailor.

"Our misfortune's been made by you," Jabril continued. "You admit your lies and ignorance. I say this ship ain't clean "til we get you off her! What's the word of all?"

There was a loud, immediate and unanimous chorus of agreement; the sailors shook their weapons at Locke and Jean as they cheered. "That's that," said Jabril. "Drop your weapons on the deck." "Wait," said Locke. "You said we" d talk, and I'm not finished!"

"I brought you on deck safe, and we did talk. Talk's finished, oath's paid off."Jabril folded his arms. "Lose your weapons!" "Now-" "Archers!" yelled Jabril. The men atop the forecastle took aim. "What's the choice?" Locke shouted angrily. "Disarm so we can what}"

"Keep your arms and die bleeding on this deck," said Jabril. "Or disarm and swim as far as you can. Let Iono be your judge."

"Quick and painful or slow and painful. Right." Locke unbuckled his sword belt and let it drop to the deck. "Master Valora had nothing to do with my cock-ups. I dragged him into this same as you!"

"Now, wait a fucking minute…" said Jean, as he set the Wicked Sisters respectfully down at his feet.

"What say you, Valora?" Jabril looked around for objections from the crew and saw none. "Ravelle's the liar. Ravelle admits the crime is his; away with him and the curse is lifted fair. You" d be welcome to stay." "He swims, I swim," Jean growled. "He worth that much to you?" "I don't have to bloody well explain myself." "So be it. That I respect," said Jabril. "Time to go."

"No," shouted Locke as several sailors advanced, swords held at guard. "No! I have one thing to say first." "You had your say. Stormfather" U judge what else there is."

"When I found you," said Locke, "you were in a vault. Under a fucking rock. You were locked away beneath iron and stone! You were fit to die or to push oars for the Archon's pleasure. You were dead and rotting, every last miserable one of you!" "Heard this already," said Jabril.

"Maybe I'm not a sea-officer," said Locke. "Maybe I deserve this; maybe you're doing right to punish the man that's brought you this misfortune. But I am also the man who freed you. / am the man who gave you any life you have. You spit on that gift before the gods to do this tome!"

"You saying you want the arrows, then?" said Aspel, and the men around him laughed.

"No," said Jabril, holding up his hands. "No. There's a point. This ain't a happy ship in the eyes of the gods, that's for bloody sure. Our luck is tight-drawn as it is, even once we're rid of him. He needs to die for the crimes he's done; for his lies and his ignorance and the men who won't see land again. But he did free us."Jabril looked around and bit his lip before continuing. "We do owe him for that. I say we give them the boat." "We need that boat," hollered Mazucca.

"Lots of boats in Port Prodigal," said Streva. "Maybe we can take one as plunder on the way down there." "Aye, that and cats," shouted another sailor.

"Open boat," said Jabril. "No food, no water, says I. They go in as they are now. Let Iono take them as and when He will. What's the word of all?"

The word of all was another outburst of enthusiastic approval. Even Mazucca gave in and nodded. "Just a longer swim, in the end," said Locke. "Well," whispered Jean, "at least you talked them into that much."

7

The ship's boat was unlashed, hoisted out and plopped over the starboard side into the deep-blue waters of the Sea of Brass.

"They get oars, Jabril?" One of the sailors had been assigned the task of removing the water cask and rations from the boat, and he'd pulled out the oars as well.

"Think not," said Jabril. "Iono moves them if He wants them moved. We leave them to float; that was the word."

Parties of armed sailors lined up fore and aft to prod Locke and Jean toward the starboard entry port. Jabril followed close behind. When they reached the edge, Locke saw that the boat was tied up with one knotted line that would allow them to climb down.

"Ravelle," said Jabril quietly. "You really hold with the Thirteenth? You really one of his divines?"

"Yeah," said Locke. "It was the only honest blessing I could give for their sakes."

"I suppose that makes sense. Spies, things like that." Jabril slipped something cold beneath Locke's tunic, against the small of his back, sliding it precariously into the top of his breeches. Locke recognized the weight of one of the stilettos from his belt.

"Stormfather maybe takes you fast," whispered Jabril, "or maybe He lets you float. Long fuckin" time. Until you decide you just plain had enough… you know?"

"Jabril…" said Locke. "Thank you. I, ah, wish I could have been a better captain."

"I wish you" d been any kind" a captain at all. Now get over the fuckin" side and be gone." i So it was that Locke and Jean watched from the gently bobbing boat as the Red Messenger limped on, south-west by west under tattered sail, leaving them in the middle of nowhere under a mid-afternoon sun that Locke would have given ten thousand solari for just a day or two earlier.

One hundred yards, two hundred, three… their former ship slowly made way across the rippling sea, at first with what must have been half the crew gazing astern, watching. But soon enough they lost interest in the dead men in their wake. Soon enough they returned to the task of keeping their precious little wooden world from succumbing to its wounds.

Locke wondered who would inherit the stern cabin, Jean's hatchets, their unusual tools and the five hundred solari stashed at the bottom of his personal chest — a mixture of their last funds and Stragos's financing. Thieves prosper, he thought.

"Well, splendid," he said, stretching his legs as best he could. He and Jean faced each other from opposite rowing benches of a boat built for six. "Once again we've engineered a brilliant escape from immediate peril and stolen something of value to take with us. This boat must be worth two solari."

"I just hope that whoever ends up with the Wicked Sisters bloody well chokes," said Jean. "What, on the hatchets?"

"No, on anything. Whatever's convenient. I should" ve thrown them out the cabin window rather than let anyone else have them. Gods." "You know, Jabril slipped me a stiletto as I went off."

Jean pondered the implications of this for a moment, then shrugged. "When a smaller boat comes along, at least we'll have a weapon to board and carry her." "Are you, ah, comfortable back there in the stern cabin?"

"I am," said Jean. He got off the bench, slid sideways and crammed himself into the stern with his back against the starboard gunwale. "Bit tight, but luxurious trimmings."

"That's good," said Locke, pointing to the middle of the boat. "Hope it doesn't get more cramped when I install the hanging garden and the library right about there."

"Already took that into account." Jean leaned his head back and closed his eyes. "Hanging garden can go in on top of my bathhouse." "Which can double as a temple," said Locke. "You think that necessary?"

"I do," said Locke. "I daresay the two of us are going to be doing a hell of a lot of praying."

They floated in silence for many minutes. Locke also closed his eyes, breathed deeply of the tangy air and listened to the faint whisper of the waves. The sun was a warm and welcome pressure on the top of his head, and this above all conspired to lull him into a half-dozing state as he sat. He looked within for some hint of anguish and found only a hollow numbness; he seemed to have relaxed into relief at this final collapse of all his plans. Nobody else to fool, no more secrets to keep, no duties required of him or Jean as they drifted, merely drifted, waiting for the gods to make their next whim known.

Jean's voice recalled him to the present after some unguessable interval had passed, and he blinked as he re-opened his eyes to the bright gleam of sun on water.

"Locke," said Jean, evidently repeating himself, "sail ho, three points off the starboard bow!"

"Ha-ha, Jean. That would be the Red Messenger, sailing away from us for ever. Surely you remember her."

"No, said Jean, more insistently. "Fresh sail ho, three points off the starboard bow!"

Locke glanced over his right shoulder, squinting. The Red Messenger was still plainly visible, now about three-quarters of a mile distant. And there, off to the left of his former ship, difficult to see at first against the bright fusion of sea and sky — yes, a dusty white square just cresting the horizon.

"I'll be damned," said Locke. "Looks like our lads are going to have their first chance at some plunder." "If only it" d had the courtesy to show up yesterday!"

"I'll wager I would have screwed things up regardless. But… can you imagine those poor bastards grappling their prey, leaping over the rails, swords in hand, screaming, "Your cats! Give us all your gods-damned cats!""

Jean laughed. "What a bloody mess we've unleashed. At least we'll have some entertainment. This'll be damn awkward with the Messenger in such a state. Maybe they'll come back for us and beg us to lend a hand." "Thed'r beg you, maybe," said Locke. As Locke watched, the Messenger's forecourse shuddered into existence, an unfolding square of white. Straining, he could just see tiny figures dashing to and fro on the deck and in the rigging. His former ship put her bow a touch to larboard, bringing the wind onto her larboard quarter.

"She's limping like a horse with a broken ankle," said Jean. "Look, they won't trust the mainmast with any canvas. Can't say I blame them." Jean scrutinized the scene for a few moments more. "Their new friend's coming up north-north-west, I think. If our lads sneak west and look harmless enough, maybe… otherwise, that new ship's got plenty of room to run west or south. If she's in any decent shape at all, Messenger'll never catch her."

"Jean…" said Locke, very slowly, a bit hesitant to trust his own naval judgment. "I don't… I don't think escape is anywhere on their minds. Look, they're straight on for the Messenger."

The next few minutes confirmed this. Indeed, the newcomer's sails soon doubled in size, and Locke could see the faintest line of the hull beneath them. Whatever she was, she was angled well north of west, fit to cut straight across the path of the Red Messenger.

"And she's fast," said Jean, clearly fascinated. "Look at her come on! I'd bet my own liver the Messenger's not even making four knots. She's doing twice that or more."

"Maybe they just don't give a whit for the Messenger," said Locke. "Maybe they can see she's wounded and they're just going to fly right past." "A "kiss my arse and fare-thee-well"," said Jean. "Pity."

The newcomer grew steadily; blurry shapes became a sleek, dark hull, billowing sails, the thin lines of masts. "Two masts," said Jean. "Brig, flying loads of canvas."

Locke felt an unexpected surge of urgency; he tried to restrain his excitement as the Messenger plodded feebly to the south-west while the newcomer steadily gained on her. Now the strange vessel showed her starboard side to them. As Jean had said, she had two masts, as well as a swift low profile and a hull so black she gleamed.

A dark speck appeared in mid-air above her stern. It moved upward, expanded and burst apart into a huge fluttering flag — a banner of solid crimson, bright as fresh-spilled blood. "Oh, gods," cried Locke. "You have to be fucking kidding!"

The newcomer raced on, foam-capped water surging at her bow, closing the gap with the Red Messenger with every passing second. Low white shapes appeared from behind her — boats crammed with the dark specks of sailors. The new ship swung round to the Messenger's lee like a hungry beast cutting off her prey's escape; meanwhile, her boats knifed across the gleaming water to launch their attack from windward. Whatever Jabril and his crew did to try to foil their entrapment, it wasn't enough; chorus after chorus of belligerent cheers echoed faintly across the water, and little black specks were soon swarming up the Messenger's sides.

"No!" Locke was unaware that he'd leapt to his feet until Jean pulled him back down hastily. "Oh, you bastards! You rotten, miserable, skulking bastards! You can't take my fucking ship—" "Which was already taken," said Jean.

"I come a thousand miles to shake your bloody hands," Locke screamed, "and you show up two hours after they put us overboard!" "Not even half that," said Jean. "Bloody fucking limp-cocked witless laggard piratesV

"Thieves prosper," said Jean, biting his knuckles as he snorted with laughter.

The battle, if it could be called that, didn't last five minutes. Someone on the quarterdeck brought the Messenger around, luffing straight into the wind, killing what little speed she'd had. All her sails were taken in and she soon drifted gently with one of the marauder's boats tied up at her side. Another boat hurried back to the ship that had birthed it. That vessel, under a far lazier press of sail than it had set out to snatch up the Messenger, then came round on a starboard tack and began to bear down in the general direction of Locke and Jean — an ominous monster toying with its next tiny meal.

"I think this might be one of those "good news, bad news" situations," said Jean, cracking his knuckles. "We may need to ready ourselves to repel boarders."

"With what? One stiletto and hurtful insinuations about their mothers?" Locke clenched his fists; his anger had become excitement. "Jean, if we get aboard that ship and talk our way into her crew, we're back in the game, by the gods!" "They might just mean to kill us and take the boat."

"We'll see," said Locke. "We'll see. First we'll exchange courtesies. Have ourselves some diplomatic interaction."

The pirate vessel came on slowly as the sun sank toward the west, and the colour of sky and water alike gradually deepened by a shade. She was indeed black-hulled — witchwood — and larger than the Red Messenger even at a glance. Sailors crowded her yardarms and deck railings; Locke felt a pang of envy to see such a large and active crew. She sliced majestically through the water, then luffed-up as orders were shouted from the quarterdeck. Sails were reefed with precise and rapid movements; she slowed to a crawl, blocked their view of the Red Messenger and presented her larboard side at a distance of about twenty yards.

"Ahoy the boat," cried a woman at the rail. She was rather short, Locke could see — dark-haired, partially armoured, backed up by at least a dozen armed and keenly interested sailors. Locke felt his skin crawl under their scrutiny, and he donned a cheerful mask. "Ahoy the brig," he shouted. "Fine weather, isn't it?" "What do you two have to say for yourselves?"

Locke rapidly considered the potential advantages of the pleading, cautious and cocky approaches, and decided that cocky was the best chance they had of making a memorable impression. "Avast," he cried, standing up and hoisting his stiletto over his head, "you must perceive we hold the weather gauge, and you are luffed-up with no hope of escape! Your ship is ours, and you are all our prisoners! We are prepared to be gracious, but don't test us."

There was an outbreak of laughter on the deck of the ship, and Locke felt his hopes rise. Laughter was good; laughter like that rarely preceded bloody slaughter, at least in his experience. "You're Captain Ravelle," shouted the woman, "aren't you?" "I, ah, see my reputation precedes me!" "Previous crew of your previous ship might have mentioned you." "Shit," Locke muttered. "Would you two care to be rescued?"

"Yes, actually," said Locke. "That would be a damn polite thing for you to do."

"Right, then. Have your friend stand up. Both of you get all your clothes off." "What?"

An arrow hissed through the air, several feet above their heads, and Locke flinched.

"Clothes off! You want charity, you entertain us first! Get your big friend up and get naked, both of you!" "I don't believe this," said Jean, rising to his feet.

"Look," shouted Locke as he began to slip out of his tunic, "can we just drop them in the bottom of the boat? You don't want us to throw them overboard, right?"

"No," said the woman. "We'll keep "em plus the boat, even if we don't keep you. Breeches off, gentlemen! That's the way!"

Moments later Locke and Jean stood, precariously balanced in the wobbling boat, stark naked with the rising evening breeze plainly felt against their backsides.

"Gentlemen," yelled the woman, "what's this? I expected to see some sabres, and instead you bring out your stilettos!"

The crew behind her roared with laughter. Crooked Warden! Locke realized others had come up along the larboard rail. There were more sailors just standing there pointing and howling at him and Jean than there were in the entire crew of the Red Messenger.

"What's the matter, boys? Thoughts of rescue not enticing enough? What's it take to get a rise out of you down there?"

Locke responded with a two-handed gesture he'd learned as a boy, one guaranteed to start fights in any city-state in the Therin world. The crowd of pirates returned it, with many creative variations.

"Right, then," cried the woman. "Stand on one leg. Both of you! Up on one!" "What?" Locke put his hands on his hips. "Which one?" "Just pick one of two, like your friend's doing," she replied.

Locke lifted his left foot just above the rowing bench, putting his arms out for balance, which was becoming steadily harder to keep. Jean did the same thing beside him, and Locke was absolutely sure that from any distance they looked a perfect pair of idiots. "Higher," said the woman. "That's sad. You can do better than that!"

Locke hitched his knee up half a foot more, staring defiantly up at her. He could feel the vibrations of fatigue and the unstable boat alike in his right leg; he and Jean were seconds away from capping embarrassment with embarrassment. "Fine work," the woman shouted. "Make "em dance!"

Locke saw the dark blurs of the arrows flash across his vision before he heard the flat snaps of their release. He dived to his right as they thudded into the middle of the boat, realizing half a second too late that thed'r not been aimed at flesh and blood. The sea swallowed him in an instant; he hit unprepared and upside-down, and when he kicked back to the surface he gasped and sputtered at the unpleasant sensation of salt water up his nose.

Locke heard rather than saw Jean spit a gout of water as he came up on the other side of the boat. The pirates were roaring now, falling over themselves, holding their sides. The short woman kicked something and a knotted rope fell through an entry port in the ship's rail. "Swim over," she yelled, "and pull the boat with you."

By clinging to the gunwales and paddling awkwardly, Locke and Jean managed to push the little boat over to the ship, where they fell into shadow beneath her side. The end of the knotted rope floated there, and Jean gave Locke a firm shove toward it, as though afraid they might yank it up at any second.

Locke hauled himself up against the fine-grained black wood of the hull, wet and naked and fuming. Rough hands grasped him at the rail and heaved him aboard. He found himself looking at a pair of weathered leather boots, and he sat up. "I hope that was amusing," he said, "because I'm going to—"

One of those boots struck him in the chest and shoved him back down to the deck. Wincing, he thought better of standing and instead studied the boot's owner. The woman was not merely short — she was petite, even from the perspective of someone literally beneath her heel. She wore a frayed sky-blue tunic over a loose black leather vest decorated with slashes that had more to do with near-misses than high fashion. Her dark hair, which piled curl upon curl, was tightly bound behind her neck, and the belt at her waist carried a minor arsenal of fighting knives and sabres. There was obvious muscle on her shoulders and arms, an impression of strength that made Locke quickly stifle his anger. "Going to what}" "Lie here on the deck," he said, "and enjoy the fine afternoon sun."

The woman laughed; a second later Jean was pulled up over the side and thrown down beside Locke. His black hair was plastered to his skull and water streamed from the bristles of his beard.

"Oh my," said the woman. "Big one and a little one. Big one looks like he can handle himself a bit. You must be Master Valora." "If you say so, madam, I suppose I must be."

"Madam? Madam's a shore word. Out here to the likes of you, it's lieutenant." "You're not the captain of this ship, then?"

The woman eased her boot off Locke's chest and allowed him to sit. "Not even hardly," she said.

"Ezri's my first," said a voice behind Locke. He turned, slowly and carefully, to regard the speaker.

This woman was taller than the one called Ezri, and broader across her shoulders. She was dark, with skin just a few shades lighter than the hull of her ship, and she was striking, but not young. There were lines about her eyes and mouth that proclaimed her somewhere near forty. Those eyes were cold and that mouth was hard — clearly she didn't share Ezri's sense of mischief about the two unclothed prisoners dripping water on her deck.

Her night-coloured braids, threaded with red and silver ribbons, hung in a mane beneath a wide four-cornered cap, and despite the heat she wore a weather-stained brown frock coat, lined along the insides with brilliant gold silk. Most astonishingly, an Elderglass mosaic vest hung unbuckled beneath her coat. That sort of armour was rarely seen outside of royal hands — each little slat of Elderglass had to be joined by a latticework of metal, since humans knew no arts to meld the glass to itself. The vest glittered with reflected sunlight, more intricate than a stained-glass window — a thousand fingernail-sized chips of gleaming glory outlined in silver. "Orrin Ravelle," she said. "I" ve never heard of you."

"Nor should you have," said Locke. "May we have the pleasure of your acquaintance?"

"Del," she said, turning away from Locke and Jean to look at Ezri, "get that boat in. Give their clothes the eye, take anything interesting and get them dressed again."

"Your will, Captain." Ezri turned and began giving instructions to the sailors around her.

"As for you two," the captain said, returning her gaze to the two drenched thieves, "my name is Zamira Drakasha. My ship's the Poison Orchid. And once you're dressed, someone will be along to haul you below and throw you in the bilge hold."

1

Their prison was at the very bottom of the Poison Orchid, on what was ironically the tallest deck on the ship, a good ten feet from lower deck to ceiling. However, the pile of barrels and oilcloth sacks crammed into the compartment left nothing but a coffin-dark crawlspace above their uneven surface. Locke and Jean sat atop this uncomfortable mass of goods with their heads against the ceiling. The lightless room stank of muck-soaked orlop ropes, of mouldering canvas, of stale food and ineffective alchemical preservatives.

This was technically the forward cargo stowage; the bilge proper was sealed behind a bulkhead roughly ten feet to their left. Not twenty feet in the opposite direction, the curved black bow of the ship met wind and water. The soft waves they could hear were lapping against the ship's sides three or four feet above their heads.

"Nothing but the friendliest people and the finest accommodations on the Sea of Brass," said Locke.

"At least I don't feel too disadvantaged by the darkness," said Jean. "Lost my bloody optics when I took that tumble into the water."

"Thusfar today we've lost a ship, a small fortune, your hatchets, and now your optics."

"At least our setbacks are getting progressively smaller."Jean cracked his knuckles and the sound echoed strangely in the darkness. "How long do you suppose we've been down here?"

"Hour, maybe?" Locke sighed, pushed himself away from the starboard bulkhead and began the laborious process of finding a vaguely comfortable niche to slide into, amidst barrel-tops and sacks of hard, lumpy objects. If he was going to be bored, he might as well be bored lying down. "But I'd be surprised if they mean to keep us here for good. I think they're just… marinating us. For whatever comes next." "You making yourself comfortable?"

"I'm fighting the good fight." Locke shoved a sack out of the way and at last had enough space to rest in. "That's better."

A few seconds later, there came the creaking tread of many pairs of feet just overhead, followed by a scraping noise. The grating to the deck above (which had been wrapped in oilcloth to seal them in darkness) was being raised. A wan fight intruded into the blackness, and Locke squinted. "Doesn't that just figure," he muttered.

"Cargo inspection," came a familiar voice from above. "We're looking for anything out of place. You two qualify."

Jean crawled over to the pale square of fight and looked up. "Lieutenant Ezri?"

"Delmastro," she said. "Ezri Delmastro, hence Lieutenant Delma-stro." "My apologies. Lieutenant Delmastro." " "That's the spirit. How do you like your cabin?"

"Could smell worse," said Locke, "but I think I'd have to spend a few days pissing on everything to get there."

"Stay alive until our supplies start to run low," said Delmastro, "and you'll drink some things that'll make this stench a happy memory. Now, usually I'd drop a ladder, but it's only three feet. I think you can manage. Come up slow; Captain Drakasha's got a sudden eagerness to have a word with you." "Does that offer include dinner?" "You're lucky it includes clothes, Ravelle. Get up here. Smallest first."

Locke crawled past Jean and heaved himself up through the hatch into the moderately less stifling air of the orlop deck. Lieutenant Delmastro waited with eight of her crewfolk, all armed and armoured. Locke was seized from behind by a burly woman as he stood up in the passageway. A moment later Jean was helped up and held by three sailors.

"Right." Delmastro seized Jean's wrists and snapped a pair of black-ened-steel manacles around them. It was Locke's turn next; she fitted the cold restraints and fastened them without gentleness. Locke gave the manacles a quick professional appraisal. They were oiled and rust-free, and too tight to wiggle out of even if he had time to make some painful adjustments to his thumbs.

"Captain's finally had a chance to talk to some of your old crew at length," said Delmastro. "Mighty curious, is what I'd call her."

"Ah, that's wonderful," said Locke. "Another fine chance to explain myself to someone. How I do so love explaining myself."

Their wary escort herded them along, and soon they were on deck in the very last light of dusk. The sun was just passing beneath the western horizon, a blood-red eye closing lazily under lids of faintly red cloud. Locke gulped the fresh air gratefully, and was again struck by the impression of population that hung about the Poison Orchid. She was crammed with crew, men and women alike, bustling about below or working on deck by the light of an increasing number of alchemical lanterns.

They had come up amidships. Something clucked and fluttered in a dark box just forward of the mainmast. A chicken coop — at least one bird was pecking the mesh of its cage in agitation. "I sympathize," whispered Locke.

The Orchid crewfolk led him to the stern a few steps ahead of Jean. On the quarterdeck, just above the companionway leading down to the stern cabins, a group of sailors once again restrained Jean at some signal from Delmastro.

"This invitation's for Ravelle only," she said. "Master Valora can wait up here until we see how this is to go." "Ah," said Locke. "Will you be comfortable up here, Jerome?"

" "Cold walls do not a prison make," " recited Jean with a smile, " "nor iron bands a bondsman.""

Lieutenant Delmastro looked at him strangely, and after a few seconds replied, " "Bold words from the tongues of the newly chained will fly — like sparks from flint, with as much real heat, and as long a life." " "You know The Ten Honest Turncoats" said Jean.

"As do you. Very interesting. And… completely beside the point." She gave Locke a gentle push toward the companionway. "Stay here, Valora. Lift a finger in an unfriendly fashion and you'll die where you stand." "My fingers will be on their best behaviour."

Down the companionway Locke stumbled, into a dark space nearly the twin of that on the Red Messenger, though larger. If Locke's quick estimate was correct, the Poison Orchid was half as long again as his former ship. There were little canvas-door cabins, two to a side, and a sturdy witchwood door to the stern cabin, currently closed tight. Ezri pushed Locke firmly aside and knocked on this door three times. "It's Ezri, with the question mark," she shouted.

A moment later the door was unbolted from within and Delmastro motioned for Locke to precede her.

Captain Drakasha's cabin, in contrast to "Ravelle's", showed every evidence of long, comfortable habitation. Richly lit by faceted alchemical jewel-lamps in gold frames, the space was piled with layers of tapestries and silk pillows. Several sea-chests supported a lacquered tabletop covered with empty dishes, folded maps and navigation instruments of obvious quality. Locke felt a pang when he saw his own chest, wide open on the floor beside Drakasha's chair.

The shutters had been drawn away from the stern windows. Drakasha sat before them, her coat and armour discarded, holding a girl of three or four on her knees. Through the windows, Locke could see the Red Messenger, shadowed in the growing darkness, crawling with the bobbing lights of what must be repair parties.

Locke glanced to his left to see who'd opened the door, then looked down and found himself meeting the gaze of a curly-haired boy who looked barely older than the girl held by Zamira. Both children had her coal-black hair, and something of her features, but their skin was somewhat lighter, like desert sand in shadow. Ezri tousled the boy's hair affectionately as she nudged Locke further into the cabin, and the boy stepped away shyly.

"There," said Zamira, ignoring the newcomers for the moment and pointing out through the stern windows. "Can you see that, Cosetta? Do you know what that is?" "Ship," said the little girl.

"That's right." Zamira smiled… no, Locke corrected himself, she positively smirked. "Mummy" s new ship. From which Mummy has taken a lovely little pile otgold." "Gold," said the little girl, clapping.

"Indeed. But look at the ship, love. Look at the ship. Can you tell Mummy what those tall things are? Those tall things that reach for the sky?" "They… urn… ha! No." "No, you don't know, or no, you are being mutinous?" "Moot nust!"

"Not on Mummy's ship, Cosetta. Look again. Mummy's told you what they are before, hasn't she? They reach for the sky, and they carry the sails, and they are the…"

"Mast," said the girl.

"Masts. But close enough. And how many are there? How many masts does Mummy's new little ship have? Count them for Mummy." "Two."

"How clever you are! Mummy's new ship has two masts, yes." Zamira leaned close to her daughter's face, so that they were touching noses, and Cosetta giggled. "Now," said Zamira, "find me something else that comes in two." "Urn "Here in the cabin, Cosetta. Find Mummy two of something" "Um…"

The girl looked around, sticking most of her left hand into her mouth as she did so, before seizing upon the pair of sabres that rested, in their scabbards, against the wall just beneath the stern window. "Sword," said Cosetta.

"That's right!" Zamira kissed her on the cheek. "Mummy has two swords. At least where you can see them, love. Now, will you be a good girl and go above with Ezri? Mummy needs to speak to this man alone for just a bit. Paolo will go, too."

Ezri moved across the cabin to take Cosetta into her arms, and the little girl clung to her with obvious pleasure. Paolo followed Ezri like a shadow, keeping the lieutenant between himself and Locke, peeking out from behind her legs when he dared to look at all. "You sure you want to be alone back here, Captain?" Til be fine, Del. Valora's the one I'd be worried about." "He's manacled, with eight hands standing by." "Good enough, I think. And the Red Messenger's men?" "All under the forecastle. Treganne's giving them the eyeball."

"Fine. I'll be along soon enough. Take Paolo and Cosetta off to Gwillem and let them sit on the quarterdeck. Nowhere near the rails, mind." "Aye."

"And tell Gwillem that if he tries to give them unwatered beer again I'll cut his heart out and piss in the hole." "I'll quote that in full, Captain."

"Off with the lot of you. If you give Ezri and Gwillem any trouble, loves, Mummy will not be pleased."

Lieutenant Delmastro withdrew from the cabin, taking the two children and closing the door behind her. Locke wondered how to approach this meeting. He knew next to nothing about Drakasha; no weak spots to exploit, no prejudices to twist. Coming clean about the various layers of deception he was working under would probably be a mistake. Best to act fully as Ravelle, for the time being.

Captain Drakasha picked up her sheathed sabres and turned her full regard upon Locke for the first time. He decided to speak first, in a friendly fashion: "Your children?"

"How little escapes the penetrating insight of the veteran intelligence officer." She slid one of her sabres out of its scabbard with a soft metallic hiss and gestured toward Locke with it. "Sit."

Locke complied. The only other chair in the cabin was next to the table, so he settled into it and folded his manacled hands in his lap. Zamira eased herself into her own chair, facing him, and set the drawn sabre across her knees.

"Where I come from," she said, "we have a custom concerning questions asked over a naked blade." She had a distinct, harmonious accent, one that Locke couldn't place. "Are you familiar with it?" "No," said Locke, "but I think the meaning is clear." "Good. Something is wrong with your story."

"Nearly everything is wrong with my story, Captain Drakasha. I had a ship and a crew and a pile of money. Now I find myself hugging a sack of potatoes in a bilge hold that smells like the bottom of an unwashed ale-cup."

"Don't hope for a lasting relationship with the potatoes. I just wanted you out of the way while I spoke to some of the Messenger's crewmen." "Ah. And how is my crew?" "We both know they're not your crew, Ravelle." "How is the crew, then?"

"Tolerably well, little thanks to you. They lost the nerve for a fight as soon as they saw our numbers. Most of them seemed downright eager to surrender, so we took the Messenger with nothing more than a few bruises and some hurt feelings." "Thank you for that."

"We weren't kind for your sake, Ravelle. In fact, you're damned fortunate we were even nearby. I like to cruise the wake of the summer's-end storms. They tend to spit out juicy morsels in no condition to refuse our hospitality." Drakasha reached down into Locke's chest, shuffled the contents and withdrew a small packet of papers. "Now," she said, "I want to know who Leocanto Kosta and Jerome de Ferra are."

"Cover identities," said Locke. "False faces we used for our work back in Tal Verrar." "In the Archon's service?" "Yes."."Nearly everything in here is signed "Kosta". Small letters of credit and reference… work order for some chairs… receipt for clothing in storage. The only document with the name Ravelle on it is this commission as a Verrari sea officer. Should I be calling you Orrin or Leocanto? Which one's the false face?" *You might as well just call me Ravelle," said Locke. "I" ve been on the officer's list under that name for years. It's how I drew my pay" "Are you Verrari-born?" "Mainland. A village called Vo Sarmara." "What did you do before you served the Archon?" "I was what you" d call a patient man." "Is that a profession now?"

"I mean a master of scales and balances, for a merchant syndicate. I was the patient man because I did the weighting, you see?" "Droll. A syndicate in Tal Verrar?" "Yes." "So you surely worked for the Priori."

"That was part of the, ah, original incentive for Stragos's people to bring me into their fold. After my usefulness as an agent in the syndicate hit a wall, I was given new duties."

"Hmm. I spoke at length with Jabril. Long enough to have no trouble believing that your naval commission really is a fake. Do you have any experience under arms?" "No formal military training, if that's what you mean."

"Curious," said Drakasha, "that you had the authority to lay claim to a ship of war, even a small one."

"When we move slowly enough to avoid upsetting anyone, captains of intelligence have excessive powers of requisition. Or at least we did. I suspect my remaining peers will be shackled with a bit of unwanted oversight because of what I" ve done."

"Tragic. Still… it's curious again that when you were at my feet you had to ask my name. I'd have thought that my identity would be obvious to anyone in Stragos's service. How long were you with him?" "Five years."

"So you came after the Free Armada was lost. Nonetheless, as a Verrari—"

"I had a vague description of you," said Locke. "Little more than your name and the name of your ship. I can assure you, had the Archon ever thought to have your portrait painted for our benefit, no man in his service would stay ignorant of your looks."

"Excellent form. But you would do well to consider me dead to flattery." "That's a pity. I'm so good at it."

"A third curious thing occurs to me: you looked genuinely surprised to see my children aboard."

"It's, ah, merely that I found it strange you" d have them with you. Out here at sea. Company to the hazards of… all this."

"Where else might I be expected to keep an eye on them?" Zamira fingered the hilt of her drawn sabre. "Paolo" s four. Cosetta's three. Is your intelligence really so out of date that you didn't know about them?"

"Look, my job was in-city operations against the Priori and other dissenters. I didn't pay much attention to naval affairs beyond drawing my official salary."

"There's a bounty of five thousand solari on my head. Mine, and every other captain that survived the War for Recognition. I know that accurate descriptions of myself and my family were circulated in Tal Verrar last year -1 got my hands on some of the leaflets. Do you expect me to believe that someone in your position could be this ignorant?"

"I hate to sting your feelings, Captain Drakasha, but I told you: I was a landsman—" "Are."

"… am and was, and my eyes were on the city. I had little enough time to study the basics of survival when I started getting ready to steal the Messenger."

"Why do that, though? Why steal a ship and go to sea? Something completely outside your confessed experience? If you had your eyes on the land and the city, why didn't you do something involving the land or the city?"

Locke licked his lips, which had become uncomfortably dry. He" d pounded a dossier of background information on Orrin Ravelle into his head, but the character had never been designed for an interrogation from this perspective. "It might sound odd," said Locke, "but it was the best I could do. As it turned out, my fake commission as a sea-officer gave me the most leverage to hurt the Archon. Stealing a ship was a grander gesture than stealing, say, a carriage." "And what did Stragos do to earn this grand gesture}" "I" ve sworn an oath never to speak of the matter." "Convenient." "Just the opposite," said Locke, "as I wish I could put you at ease."

"At ease? How could anything you" ve told me put me at ease? You lie, and add flourishes to old lies, and refuse to discuss your motives for embarking on an insane venture. If you won't give me answers, I have to presume that you're a danger to this vessel, and that I risk offending Maxilan Stragos by taking you in. I can't afford the consequences. I think it's time to put you back where I found you." "The hold?" "The open sea."

"Ah." Locke frowned, then bit the inside of his right cheek to contain a laugh. "Ah, Captain Drakasha, that was very well done. Amateurish, but creative. Someone without my history might have fallen for it."

"Damn." Drakasha smiled tightly. "I should have drawn the curtains over the stern windows."

"Yes. I can see your people swarming over the Messenger as we speak. I presume your prize crew is un-fucking the rigging so she can make more than a toddler's crawl, right? If you gave one speck of rat shit for offending the Archon, you" d be sinking that ship, not refurbishing it for sale." "True," said Drakasha. "Which means—"

"Which means that I'm still asking questions, Ravelle. Tell me about your accomplice, Master Valora. A particular friend?"

"An old associate. He helped me in Tal Verrar with… objectionable work." "Just an associate?" "I pay him well and trust him with my business, yes."

"Curiously educated." Zamira pointed up at the cabin ceiling; a narrow skylight had vents slightly cracked to let in air from the quarterdeck. "I heard him and Ezri quoting Lucarno to one another a few minutes ago."

"The Tragedy of the Ten Honest Turncoats," said Locke. "Jerome is… fond of it." i

"He can read. According to Jabril he's not a seaman, but he can do complex sums. He speaks Vadran. He uses trader's terms and knows his way around cargo. So I'd guess that he comes from prosperous merchant stock." Locke said nothing. "He was with you before you worked for the Archon, wasn't he?"

"He was a servant of the Priori, yes." Apparently, fitting Jean into Drakasha's presumptions wouldn't be as difficult as Locke had feared. "I brought him with me when I joined the Archon's cause." "But not as a friend." "Just a very good agent."

"My appropriately amoral spy," said Drakasha. She stood up, moved beneath the skylight and raised her voice. "On deck, there!" "Aye, Captain?" Ezri's voice. "Del, bring Valora down here."

A few moments later, the door to the cabin swung open and Jean entered, followed by Lieutenant Delmastro. Captain Drakasha suddenly unsheathed her second sabre. The empty scabbards clattered to the deck and she pointed one blade at Locke. "The instant you rise from that chair," she said, "you die." "What's going—" "Quiet. Ezri, I want Valora dealt with." " "Your will, Captain."

Before Jean could do anything, Ezri gave him a sharp lack to the back of his right knee, so fast and well placed that Locke winced. She followed this up with a hard shove, and Jean fell to his hands and knees.

"I might still have a use for you, Ravelle. But I can't let you keep your agent." Drakasha took a step toward Jean, raising her right-hand sabre.

Locke was out of the chair before he could help himself, throwing himself at her, trying to tangle her arms in his manacle chain.

"NO!" he screamed. The cabin spun wildly around him, and then he was on the floor with a dull ache coursing through his jaw. His mind, working a second or two behind the pace of events, gradually concluded that Drakasha had bashed his chin with the hilt of one of her sabres. He was now on his back, with that sabre hovering just above his neck. Drakasha looked ten feet tall. "Please," Locke sputtered. "Not Jerome. It's not necessary." "I know," said Drakasha. "Ezri?" "Looks like I owe you ten solari, Captain."

"You should" ve known better," said Drakasha, grinning. "You heard what Jabril had to say about these two."

"I did, I did." Ezri knelt over Jean, a look of genuine concern on her face. "I just didn't think Ravelle had it in him." "This sort of thing rarely goes just one way." "Should" ve known that, too."

Locke raised his hands and pushed Drakasha's blade aside. She yielded. He rolled over, stumbled to his knees and grabbed Jean by one arm, ignoring his throbbing jaw. He knew it wasn't broken, at least. "Are you okay, Jerome?" "Fine," said Jean. "Scraped my hands a bit." "I'm sorry," Ezri said.

"No worries," said Jean. "That was a good hit. Not much else you could have done to knock down someone my size." He stumbled to his feet with Locke and Ezri's help. "A kidney punch, maybe."

Ezri showed off the set of iron knuckles around the fingers of her right hand. "That was the contingency plan."

"Damn, am I glad you didn't do that. But you could" ve… I might have fallen backwards if you hadn't shoved fast enough. Hooking one foot around my shin from behind—"

"Thought about it. Or a good stiff jab to the sensitive spot in your armpit—" "And an arm twist, yeah. That would" ve—"

"But I don't trust that against someone so big; the leverage is wrong unless—"

Drakasha cleared her throat loudly, and Jean and Ezri fell silent, almost sheepishly.

"You lied to me about Jerome, Ravelle." She retrieved her sword-belt and slid her sabres into their scabbards with a pair of sharp clacks. "He's no hired agent. He's a friend. The sort who'd refuse to let you get thrown off a ship by yourself. The sort you" d try to protect, even though I told you it would mean your death."

"Clever," said Locke, feeling a faint warmth rising on his cheeks. "So that's what this was all about."

"More or less. I needed to know what sort of man you were before I decided what to do with you." "And what have you decided?" "You're reckless, vain and too clever by half," she said. "You suffer from the delusion that your prevarications are charming. And you're just as willing as Jerome is to die stupidly on behalf of a friend."

"Yeah," he said, "well… perhaps I" ve grown fond of the ugly lump over the years. Does that mean we're going back to the hold, or to the open sea?"

"Neither," said Drakasha. "You're going to the forecastle, where you'll eat and sleep with all the other crewmen from the Red Messenger. I'll peel your other lies apart at leisure. For the time being, I'm satisfied that if you" ve got Jerome to look after, you'll be sensible." "And so we're what? Slaves?"

"No one aboard this ship takes slaves," said Drakasha with a dangerous edge in her voice. "We do execute our fair share of smart-arses, however." "I thought I was a charming prevaricator."

"Grasp this," said Drakasha. "Your whole world consists of the few inches of empty deck I allow you, and you're gods-damned lucky to have them. Ezri and I will explain the situation to all of you at the forecastle."

"And our things? The papers, I mean? The personal documents? Keep the gold, but—"

"Keep it? You really mean that? What a sweetheart this man is, Ezri." Drakasha used her right boot to tip the cover of Locke's sea-chest closed. "Let's call your papers a hostage to your good behaviour. I have a shortage of blank parchment and two children who" ve recently discovered the joys of ink." "Point thoroughly taken."

"Ezri, haul them up on deck and remove their manacles. Let's get back to acting as though we have somewhere important to be."

2

On the quarterdeck they were met by a harried-looking woman of middle years, short and broad, with a finger-length halo of white hair above the lines of a face that had obviously contributed many years of scowls to the world. Her wide, predatory eyes were in constant motion, like an owl unable to decide whether it was bored or hungry.

"You might have caught a less wretched bunch had you looked nearly anywhere," she said without preamble. "And you might have noticed it hasn't exactly been a buyer's market for prizes recently." Zamira bore the woman's manner with the ease of what must have been a very old familiarity.

"Well, if you want to use frayed hemp to weave a line, don't blame the ropemaker when it snaps."

"I know better than to blame you for anything, Scholar. It leads to weeks of misery for everyone. How many?"

"Twenty-eight at the forecastle," she said. "Eight had to be left aboard the prize. Broken bones in every case. Not safe to move them." "Will they last to Port Prodigal?"

"Assuming their ship does. Assuming they do as I told them, which is a bold—"

"That's the best we can do for them, I'm sure. Condition of the twenty-eight?"

"I'm sure you heard me say "wretched", which derives from a state of wretchedness, which is in turn caused by their being wretches. I could use a number of other highly technical terms, only some of them completely imaginary—" "Treganne, my patience is as long-vanished as your good looks."

"Most of them are still suffering from long enclosure. Poor sustenance, little exercise and nervous malaise. They" ve been eating better since leaving Tal Verrar, but they're exhausted and battered. A handful are in what I'd call decent health. An equal number are not fit for any work at all until I say otherwise. I won't bend on that… Captain." "I won't ask you to. Disease?"

"Miraculously absent, if you mean fevers and contagions. Also little byway of sexual consequences. They" ve been locked away from women for months, and most of them are Eastern Therin. Very little inclination to lay with one another, you know." "Their loss. If I have further need of you—"

"I'll be in my cabin, obviously. And mind your children. They appear to be steering the ship."

Locke stared at the woman as she stamped away. One of her feet had the hollow, heavy sound of wood, and she walked with the aid of a strange cane made of stacked white cylinders. Ivory? No — the spine of some unfortunate creature, fused together with shining seams of metal.

Drakasha and Delmastro turned toward the ship's wheel, a doubled affair like the one aboard the Messenger, currently tended by an unusually tall young man who was all sharp, gangling angles. At either side stood Paolo and Cosetta, not actually touching the wheel but mimicking his movements and giggling.

"Mumchance," said Drakasha as she stepped over and pulled Cosetta away from the wheel, "where's Gwillem?" "Craplines." "I told him he was on sprat duty," said Ezri. "I'll have his rucking eyes," said Drakasha. Mumchance seemed unruffled. "Man's gotta piss, Captain." "Gotta piss," mumbled Cosetta.

"Hush." Zamira reached around Mumchance and snatched Paolo back from the wheel as well. "Mum, you know full well they're not to touch the wheel or the rails." "They wasn't touching the wheel, Captain."

"Nor are they to dance at your side, cling to your legs or in any other way assist you in navigating the vessel. Clear?" "Savvy."

"Paolo," said Drakasha, "take your sister back to the cabin and wait for me there."

"Yes," said the boy, his voice as faint as the sound of two pieces of paper sliding together. He took Cosetta's hand and began to lead her aft.

Drakasha hurried forward once again, past small parties of crewfolk working or eating, all of whom acknowledged her passing with respectful nods and waves. Ezri pushed Locke and Jean along in her wake.

Near the chicken coops, Drakasha crossed paths with a rotund but sprightly Vadran a few years older than herself. The man was wearing a dandified black jacket covered in tarnished brass buckles, and his blond-grey hair was pulled into a billowing ponytail that hung to the seat of his breeches. Drakasha grabbed him by the front of his tunic with her left hand.

"Gwillem, what part of "watch the children for a Few minutes" did Ezri fail to make clear?" "I left them with Mum, Captain—" "They were your problem, not his." "Well, you trust him to steer the ship, why not trust him to—"

"I do trust him with my loves, Gwillem. I just have a peculiar attachment to having orders followed."

"Captain," said Gwillem in a low voice, "I had to drop some brown on the blue, eh? I could" ve brought them to the craplines, but I doubt you would have approved of the education thed'r have received—"

"Hold it in, for Iono's sake. I only took a few minutes. Now go and pack your things." "My things?" "Take the last boat over to the Messenger and join the prize crew." "Prize crew? Captain, you know I'm not much good—"

"I want that ship eyeballed and inventoried, bowsprit to taffrail. Account for everything. When I haggle with the Shipbreaker over it, I want to know exactly how far the bastard is trying to cheat me." "But—"

"I'll expect your written tally when we rendezvous in Port Prodigal. We both know there was hardly any loot to sling over and count today. Get over there and earn your share." "Your will, Captain."

"My quartermaster," Zamira said when Gwillem had trudged away, swearing. "Not bad, really. Just prefers to let work sort of elude him whenever possible."

At the bow of the ship was the forecastle deck, raised perhaps four and a half feet above the weather deck, with broad stairs on either side. In between those stairs a wide, uncovered opening led to a dark area that was half-compartment and half-crawlspace beneath the forecastle. It was seven or eight yards long by Locke's estimate.

The forecastle deck and stairs were crowded with most of the Red Messenger's men, under the casual guard of half a dozen of Zamira's armed crewfolk. Jabril, sitting next to Aspel at the front of the crowd, looked deeply amused to see Locke and Jean again. The men behind him began to mutter.

"Shut up," said Ezri, taking a position between Zamira and the newcomers. Locke, not quite knowing what to do, stood off to one side with Jean and waited for instructions. Drakasha cleared her throat.

"Some of us haven't met. I'm Zamira Drakasha, captain of the Poison Orchid. Lend an ear. Jabril told me that you took ship in Tal Verrar thinking you were to be pirates. Anyone having second thoughts?"

Most of the Messenger's men shook their heads or quietly muttered denials.

"Good. I am what your friend Ravelle pretended to be," Drakasha said, reaching over and putting one of her arms around Locke's shoulders. She smiled theatrically, and several of the Messenger's less-battered men chuckled. "I have no lords or masters. I fly the red flag when I'm hungry and a false flag when I'm not. I have one port of call, Port Prodigal in the Ghostwinds. Nowhere else will have me. Nowhere else is safe. You live on this deck, you share that peril. I know some of you don't understand. Think of the world. Think of everywhere in the world that isn't this ship, save one rotten little speck of misery in the blackest arsehole of nowhere. That's what you're renouncing. Everything. Everyone. Everywhere."

She released Locke, noting the sombre expressions of the Messenger's crew with approval. She pointed at Ezri. "My first mate, Ezri Delmastro. We call her "lieutenant" and so do you. She says it, I back it. Never presume otherwise.

"You" ve met our ship's physiker. Scholar Treganne tells me you could be worse and you could be better. There'll be rest for those that need it. I can't use you if you're in no condition to work."

"Are we being invited to join your crew, Captain Draksaha?" asked Jabril.

"You're being offered a chance," said Ezri. "That's all. After this, you're not prisoners, but you're not free men. You're what we call the scrub watch. You sleep here, in what we call the undercastle. Worst place on the ship, more or less. If there's a filthy shit job to be had, you'll do it. If we're short blankets or clothes, you'll go without. You're last for meals and drinks."

"Every member of my crew can give you an order," said Drakasha, picking up as Ezri finished. Locke had a notion that thed'r honed this routine together over time. "And every one of them will expect to be obeyed. We've no formal defaults; cop wise or slack off and someone will just beat the hell out of you. Raise enough fuss that I have to notice and I'll throw you over the side. Think I'm kidding? Ask someone who's been here awhile."

"How long do we have to be on the scrub watch?" asked one of the younger men near the back of the crowd.

"Until you prove yourselves," said Drakasha. "We raise anchor in a few minutes and sail for Port Prodigal. Anyone who wants to leave when we get there, be gone. You won't be sold; this isn't a slaving ship. But you'll get no pay save drink and rations. You'll walk away with empty pockets, and in Prodigal, slavery might be kinder. At least someone would give a shit that you lived or died.

"If we cross paths with another sail on the way down," she continued, "I'll give thought to taking her. And if we fly a red flag, that's your chance. You'll go in first; you'll board the prize before any of us. If there's fire or bows or razor-nets or gods-know-what, you'll taste it first and bleed first. If you survive, grand. You're crew. If you refuse, we dump you in Port Prodigal. I only keep a scrub watch on hand as long as I have to." She nodded to Ezri.

"As of now," said Delmastro, "you can have the forecastle and the weather deck as far back as the mainmast. Don't go below or touch a tool without instructions. Touch a weapon, or try to take one from one of the crew, and I guarantee you'll die on the instant. We're touchy about that.

"You want to get cosy with a member of the crew, or they offer to get cosy with you, do what you will as long as you're off-duty and you stay off the bloody weather deck. Out here, what's given is given. You try to take something by force, you" d better pray you die in the attempt, because we're touchy about that, too."

Zamira took over again and pointed at Locke and Jean. "Ravelle and Valora will be rejoining you." A few of the men grumbled, and Zamira rested her hands on her sabre hilts. "Mind your fucking manners. You put them over the side and vowed to let Iono be their judge. I showed up about an hour later. That settles that; anyone who thinks they know better than the Lord of the Grasping Waters can jump over the rail and take it up with Him in person." "They" re scrub watch like the rest of you," said Ezri.

Still the men didn't look particularly enthusiastic, and Zamira cleared her throat. "This is an equal-shares ship." That got their attention.

"Ship's quartermaster goes by the name of Gwillem. He counts the take. Thirty per cent goes to the ship so we don't slink about with rotting canvas and cordage. Rest gets split evenly, one share per beating heart.

"You don't touch a centira from what we already took out of your old ship. No apologies there. But if you get your chance on the way to Port Prodigal, and you're crew when we sell the Messenger off to the Shipbreaker, you'll get a share of that, and that'll set you up nicely. If you're crew."

Locke had to admire her for that; it was a sensible policy, and she'd brought it into the lecture at a moment calculated to deflect dissension and worry. Now the Red Messenger wouldn't just be an unhappy memory vanishing over the horizon in the hands of a prize crew; it might be a waiting pile of silver.

Zamira turned and headed aft, leaving Delmastro to finish the show. As murmurs of conversation began to rise, the petite lieutenant yelled, "Shut up! That's the business, then. There'll be food in a while and a half-ration of beer to settle you down some. Tomorrow I'll start sorting those of you with particular skills and introducing you to some work.

"There's one last thing the captain didn't mention." Ezri paused for several seconds and made sure that everyone was listening attentively. "The younger Drakashas. Captain has a boy and a girl. Mostly they're in her cabin, but sometimes they" ve got the run of the ship. What they are to you is sacred. I mean this, more than I mean anything else I" ve said tonight. Say so much as an unkind word to them and I'll nail your cock to the foremast and leave you there to die of thirst. The crew thinks of them as family. If you have to break your neck to keep them safe, then it's in your best interest to break your bloody neck."

Delmastro appeared to take everyone's silence as a sign that they were duly impressed, and she nodded. A moment later, Drakasha's voice sounded from the quarterdeck, magnified by a speaking trumpet: "Up anchor!"

Delmastro lifted a whistle that hung around her neck on a leather cord and blew it three times. "At the waist," she hollered in an impossibly loud voice, "ship capstan bars! Stand by to raise anchor! Scrub watch to the waist, as able!"

At her urging, most of the Messenger's former crew rose and began shuffling toward the Orchid's waist. A large work party was already gathering there, between the foremast and the chicken coops, fitting long capstan bars in their places by lantern light. A woman was scattering sand on the deck from a bucket. Locke and Jean fell in with Jabril, who smiled wryly. "Evening, Ravelle. You look a bit… demoted."

"I'm happy enough," said Locke. "But honestly, Jabril, I leave the Messenger in your hands for what, an hour? And look what happens." "It's a bloody improvement," said someone behind Locke.

"Oh, I agree," said Locke, deciding that the next few days might be infinitely more pleasant for everyone if Ravelle were to swallow anything resembling pride over his brief career as a captain. "I agree with all my gods-damned heart." Ezri shoved her way through the gathering crowd and vaulted atop the capstan barrel; it was wide enough that she could sit cross-legged upon it, which she did. She blew her whistle twice more and yelled, "Rigged below?" "Rigged below," rose an answering cry from one of the hatches.

"Take your places," said Ezri. Locke squeezed in next to Jean and leaned against one of the long wooden bars; this capstan was wider than the one aboard the Messenger, and an extra twenty or so sailors could easily crowd in to work it. Every place was filled in seconds.

"Right," said Ezri, "heave! Slow to start! Heave! Slow to start! Feet and shoulders! Faster, now — make the little bitch spin round and round! You know you want to!"

Locke heaved at his bar, feeling the grit shift and crunch beneath him, poking uncomfortably at the sensitive spots between his toes and the balls of his bare feet. But nobody else was complaining, so he bit his lip and bore it. Ezri was indeed spinning round and round; clank by clank, the anchor cable was coming in. A party formed at the larboard bow to secure it. After several minutes of shoving, Ezri brought the capstan party to a halt with one short blast on her whistle. "Vast heaving," she cried, "secure larboard anchor!"

"Cast to the larboard tack," came Drakasha's amplified voice, "fore and main topsails!"

More running, more whistles, more commotion. Ezri hopped to her feet atop the capstan and bellowed a quick succession of orders: "Hands aloft to loose fore and aft topsails! Brace mainyards round for the larboard tack! Foreyards braced abox!" There was more, but Locke stopped listening as he tried to make sense of what was happening. The Poison Orchid had been drifting by a single anchor in a calm sea, with a light breeze out of the north-east, and she'd drifted down so that the wind was dead ahead. What little he understood of Ezri's orders told him that the ship would be slipping a bit aback, then turning east and bringing the wind over her larboard bow.

"Fore and aft watches, at the rails! Top-eyes, wide awake, now!" Ezri leapt down onto the deck. Dark shapes were surging up the ratlines hand-over-hand; blocks and tackles creaked in the growing darkness and still more crew were coming up through the hatches to join the tumult. "Scrub watch! Scrub watch, get to the undercastle and stay out of the bloody way! Not you two." Ezri grabbed Locke and Jean as they moved with the Messenger's men and pointed them aft. "Tool locker, under the starboard stairs abaft the mainmast. Get brooms and sweep all this sand back into its bucket. After you unship the capstan bars."

They did just that, tedious work by wavering alchemical light, frequently interrupted by busy or discourteous crewfolk. Locke worked with a scowl until Ezri stepped up between him and Jean and whispered: "Don't mind this. It'll make things a hell of a lot easier with your old crew."

Damned if she wasn't right, Locke thought; a little extra humiliation heaped on Ravelle and Valora might be just the thing to stifle the old crew's resentment. "My compliments," he whispered.

"I know my business," she said brusquely. "See everything back to where you found it, then go to the undercastle and stay there."

Then she was gone, into the work parties overseeing a dozen delicate operations. Locke returned the brooms to the tool locker, then threaded his way forward with Jean just behind. Overhead, canvas snapped and rolled, ropes creaked as strain was added or adjusted and men and women called softly to one another as they worked with nothing but thin air for dozens of yards beneath them.

The Poison Orchid slid slowly onto the larboard tack. She put the last faint halo of the lost sun behind her, as though sailing out of some ghostly golden portal, and gathered way beneath the first stars of evening, which waxed steadily brighter in the inky eastern sky.

Locke was pleasantly surprised to discover that Jabril had held a spot for him and Jean; not one of the more desirable ones near the entrance to the undercastle, but enough spare deck to squeeze up against the larboard bulkhead, in relative darkness. Others with more favourable positions appeared not to begrudge them a moment of space as they crawled and stumbled past. One or two men muttered greetings; at worst, a few, like Mazucca and Aspel, maintained an unfriendly silence.

"Looks like you two really have joined the rest of us galley slaves," said Jabril.

"Galley slaves is what we" d be if Ravelle hadn't gotten us out" a the Windward Rock," said someone Locke didn't recognize. "May be a dumb fuck, but we should show him fellowship for that."

Thanks for speaking up when we were being thrown off the ship, Locke thought. "Aye, I agree about the dumb fuck part," said Mazucca. "And we'll all mind the fellowship part," said Jean, using the slow, careful voice he reserved for people he was trying to avoid hitting. "Orrin's not alone, is he?"

"Dark in here," said Mazucca, "lots of us, squeezed in together. You think you can move fast enough, Valora? You think you can stay awake long enough for it to matter? Twenty-eight on two—"

"If it was clear deck between you and me," said Jean, "you" d piss your breeches the moment I cracked my knuckles." "Jerome," said Locke, "Easy. We can all—"

There was the sound of a scuffle in the darkness, and then a heavy thud. Mazucca gave a strangled squawk.

"Baldy, you stupid bastard," hissed an unknown voice, "you raise a hand against them and Drakasha will kill you, savvy?"

"You'll make it worse for all of us," said Jabril. "You never heard of Zamira Drakasha? Piss her off and we might all lose our chance to be crew. You do that, Mazucca, you find out what twenty-eight on one feels like. Fuckin" promise."

There were murmurs of assent in the darkness and a sharp gasp as whoever had been holding Mazucca let go. "Peace," he gasped. T won't… I won't ruin things. Not me."

The night was warm, and the heat of thirty men in close confinement rapidly grew stifling despite the small ventilation grating in the middle of the forecastle deck. As Locke's eyes adjusted to the darkness, he became able to pick out the shadowed shapes of the men around him more clearly. They lay or sat flank to flank like livestock. The ship reverberated with activity around them. Feet pounded the forecastle deck, crewfolk moved about and laughed and shouted on the deck below. There was a slapping hiss of waves parting before the bow, and the constant sound of toil and shouted orders from aft.

In time, there was a cursory meal of lukewarm salted pork and half a leather jack of skunkish swill vaguely descended from ale. The food and drink were passed awkwardly through the crowd; knees and elbows met stomachs and foreheads continually until everyone was dealt with. Then came the equally punishing task of passing jacks and tin bowls back, and then of men crawling over one another to use the craplines. Locke finally settled for good into his sliver of deckspace against Jean's back, and had a sudden thought. "Jabril, did anyone find out what day it is?"

"Twelfth of Festal," said Jabril. T asked Lieutenant Delmastro when I was brought aboard." "Twelve days," muttered Jean. "That bloody storm lasted a while."

"Yeah," Locke sighed. Twelve days gone. Not two weeks since thed'r set out, with every man here deferring to him and Jean as heroes. Twelve days for the antidote to wane in strength. Gods, the Archon… how the hell was he going to explain what had happened to the ship? Some nautical technicality? "Squiggle-fucked the rightwise cock-swabber with a starboard jib," he whispered to himself, "when I should" ve used a larboard jib." "What?" muttered Jean and Jabril simultaneously. "Nothing."

Soon enough the old instincts of a Catchfire orphan asserted themselves. Locke made a pillow of the crook of his left arm and closed his eyes. In moments the noise and heat and bustle of the men around him, and the thousand noises of the unfamiliar ship, were nothing more than a vague background to his light but steady sleep.

1

By the seventeenth of Festal, Jean had come to dread the sight and smell of the ship's vinegar as much as he'd come to appreciate his glimpses of her lieutenant.

His morning task, on most days, was to fill one bucket with the foul red stuff and another with seawater, and set to swabbing the deck and bulkheads along the full length of the main deck, at least where he could reach. Fore and aft were long compartments called crew berths, and one would be in use at any given time, crammed with four or five dozen people in and out of hammocks, their snores mingling like the growls of caged beasts. That berth Jean would carefully avoid, instead swabbing out ship's stores (what the crew called the "delicates room" for its rack of glass bottles under netting), the main-deck hold and armoury and the empty crew berth — though even when empty each berth contained a mess of barrels, crates and nettings that had to be laboriously shifted.

Once the reek of watered vinegar was fully mingled with the usual below-decks stench of old food, bad liquor and all things unwashed, Jean would usually move throughout the lowest two decks, the orlop and the bilge, swinging a large yellow alchemical light before him to help dissipate the miasmas that caused disease. Drakasha was a great one for the health of her crew; most of the sailors pierced their ears with copper to ward off cataracts and drank pinches of white sand in their ale to strengthen their bellies against rupture. The lower decks were lighted at least twice a day, much to the amusement of the ship's cats. Unfortunately, this meant climbing, crawling, scrambling and shoving past all manner of obstacles, including busy crewfolk. Jean was always careful to be polite and make his obedience by nodding as he passed.

This crew was always in motion; this ship was always alive. The more Jean saw and learned on the Poison Orchid, the more convinced he became that the maintenance schedule he'd set as first mate of the Red Messenger had been hopelessly naive. No doubt Caldris would have spoken up eventually, had he lived long enough to notice.

There appeared to be no such thing, in Captain Drakasha's opinion, as a state of adequate repair for a ship at sea. What was checked or inspected one watch was checked again the next, and the next, day after day. What was braced was then rebraced, what could be mended was remended. The pump and capstan mechanisms were greased daily with fat scraped from the cooking pots; the masts were "slushed" top to bottom with the same brown gunk, for protection against the weather. Sailors wandered in constant, attentive parties, inspecting plank seams or wrapping canvas around rigging where the ropes chafed against one another.

The Orchids were divided into two watches, Red and Blue. They would work in six-hour shifts, one watch minding the ship while the other rested. The Red Watch, for example, had duty from noon till the sixth hour of the evening, and would come back on duty from midnight till the sixth hour of the morning. Crew on the off-watch could do as they pleased, unless the call of "all hands" summoned them to the deck for some strenuous or dangerous undertaking.

The scrub watch didn't fit into this scheme; the former men of the Red Messenger were worked from dawn to dusk, and took their meals after they were dismissed rather than around noon with the actual crew.

For all their grumbling, Jean didn't get the sense that the Orchids genuinely resented their new shipmates. In fact, he suspected that the ex-Messengers were taking up most of the less interesting chores, leaving the Orchids that much more time to sleep, or mend personal effects, or gamble, or fuck without a hint of shame in their hammocks or under their blankets. The lack of privacy aboard ship was still a major astonishment to Jean; he was neither a prude nor a virgin, but his idea of the right place had always involved stone walls and a firmly locked door.

A lock would mean little on a ship like this, where most any noise was a shared noise. There was a pair of men on the Blue Watch who could be heard from the taffrail if they were doing it in the forward berth, and a woman on the Red Watch who screamed the damnedest things in Vadran, usually just as Jean was drifting off to sleep on the deck above her. He and Locke had puzzled over her grammar and concluded that she didn't actually speak Vadran. Sometimes her performances were followed by applause.

That aside, the crew seemed to take pride in their discipline. Jean witnessed no fights, few serious arguments and little out-of-place drinking. Beer or wine was taken in a respectable fashion at every meal, and by some complicated scheme that Jean had yet to work out, each member of the crew was allowed, about once a week, to go on what was called the Merry Watch, a sort of watch-within-a-watch. The Merry Watch would set up on the main deck and be allowed a bit of freedom at the ship's waist (especially for throwing up). They could drink more or less as they saw fit, and were excused even from all-hands calls until thed'r recovered.

"It's not… exactly what I expected," said Jean as Ezri stood at the larboard rail one morning, pretending not to watch him touch up the grey paint on the bottom of the ship's smallest boat. She did that, every now and again. Was he imagining things? Was it his quoting Lucarno? He" d avoided quoting anything else at her, even when the opportunity had presented itself. Better to be a mystery, in his book, than to make a cheap refrain of something that had caught her attention.

Thirteen gods, he thought with a start, am I angling myself for a pass at her? Is she— "Pardon?" she said.

Jean smiled. Somehow he'd guessed she wouldn't mind his speaking without invitation. "Your ship. It's not exactly what I expected. From what I" ve read."

"From what you" ve read}" She laughed, crossed her arms and regarded him almost slyly. "What" ve you read?"

"Let me think." He dipped his brush in the grey alchemical slop and tried to look busy. "Seven Tears Between the Gale and the Lash."

"Benedictus Montcalm," she said. "Read that one. Mostly bullshit. I think he traded drinks for stories off real sailors until he had his fill." "How about the True and Accurate History of the Wanton Red Flag}" "Suzette vela Ducasi! I know her!" "Know her?"

"Know of her. Crazy old bitch wound up in Port Prodigal. Scribes for coppers, drinks every coin she gets. Barely speaks decent Therin any more. Just haunts the gutter and curses her old publishers." "Those are all the books I can remember," said Jean. "Not much of a taste for histories, I'm afraid. So, how" d you manage to read everything you have?"

"Ahhh," she said, tossing her hair backward with a flick of her neck. She wasn't scrawny, thought Jean — no angles on Ezri, just healthy curves and muscle. Had to be healthy to knock him down as she had, even by surprise. "Out here, the past is a currency, Jerome. Sometimes it's the only one we have." "Mysterious." "Sensible." "You already know a bit about me."

"And fair's fair, is it? Thing is, I'm a ship's officer and you're a dangerous unknown." "That sounds promising."

"I thought so, too." She smiled. "More to the point, I'm a ship's officer and you're scrub watch. You're not even real yet." She framed him with her hands and squinted. "You're just a sort of hazy something on the horizon."

"Well," he said, and, aware that he sounded like a nitwit even as he repeated himself, "ah, well." "But you were curious." "I was?" "About the ship."

"Oh. Yeah, I was. I just wondered… now that I" ve seen a fair bit of it—"

"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 any more. 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. Drak-asha'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 Blue Watch and a woman called Nasreen led the Red, 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 north-east, clouds that came and went like a tavern dancer's favour, 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 got 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, unravelling old rope into its component yarns. Locke was shredding these into a pile of rough brown fibres. 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.

The 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 resembled 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."

3

On the nineteenth, at half-past noon, Drakasha shouted for Locke to come to her cabin. Locke ran aft as fast as he could, visions of Tomas and Mazucca vivid in his mind. "Ravelle, what the unhallowed hells is this?"

Locke paused to take in the scene. She'd rigged her table in the centre of the cabin. Paolo and Cosetta were seated across from one another, staring at Locke, and a deck of playing cards was spread in an unfathomable pattern between them. A silver goblet was tipped over in the middle of the table… a goblet too large for little hands. Locke felt a flutter of anxiety in the pit of his stomach, but looked closer nonetheless.

As he'd suspected… a mouthful or so of pale-brown liquor had spilled onto the tabletop from the goblet and fallen across a card. That card had dissolved into a puddle of soft, completely unmarked grey material.

"You took the cards out of my chest," he said. "The ones in the double-layered oilcloth parcel." "Yes."

"And you were drinking a fairly strong liquor with your meal. One of your children spilled it." "Caramel brandy, and I spilled it myself." She produced a dagger and poked at the grey material. Although it had a liquid sheen, it was hard and solid, and the tip of the dagger slid off it as though it were granite. "What the hell is this? It's like… alchemical cement."

"It is alchemical cement. You didn't notice that the cards smelled funny?"

"Why the hell would I smell playing cards?" She frowned. "Children, don't touch these anymore. In fact, go and sit on your bed until Mummy can wash your hands." "It's not dangerous," said Locke.

"I don't care," she said. "Paolo, Cosetta, put your hands in your laps and wait for Mummy."

"They" re not really cards," said Locke. "They" re alchemical resin wafers. Paper-thin and flexible. The card designs are actually painted on. You wouldn't believe how expensive they were." "Nor would I care. What the hell are they^r?"

"Isn't it obvious? Dip one in strong liquor and it dissolves in a few seconds. Suddenly you" ve got a little pat of alchemical cement. Mash up as many cards as you need. The stuff dries in about a minute, hard as steel."

"Hard as steel?" She eyed the grey splotch on her fine lacquered tabletop. "How does it come off?"

"Um… it doesn't. There's no solvent. At least not outside of an alchemist's lab." "What? Gods damn it, Ravelle—"

"Captain, you're being unfair. I didn't ask you to take those cards out and play with them. Nor did I spill liquor on them."

"You're right," said Drakasha with a sigh. She looked tired, Locke thought. The faint frown-lines around her mouth looked as though thed'r had a long recent workout. "Gather these up and throw them overboard."

"Captain, please. Please." Locke held his hands out toward her. "Not only are they expensive, thed'r be… damned difficult to duplicate. It" d take months. Let me just roll them back up in oilcloth and put them in the chest. Please think of them as part of my papers." "What do you use them for?"

"They" re just part of my little bag of tricks," he said. "All I have left of it, really. One last, important little trick. I swear to you, they're absolutely no threat to you or your ship… you have to spill booze on them, and even then they're just an annoyance. Look, if you save them for me, and find me some knives with scalpel-edges, I'll devote all my time to getting that shit off your table. Prying from the sides. Even if it takes all week. Please."

As it turned out, it took him ten hours, scraping away with infinite care atop the forecastle, as though he were performing surgery. He worked without rest, first by sunlight and then by the glow of multiple lanterns, until the devilishly hard stuff had been scraped off with nothing but a ghost upon the lacquer to show for it.

When he finally claimed his minuscule sleeping space, he knew his hands and forearms would ache well into the next day.

It was worth it, and had been worth every minute of work, to preserve the existence of that deck of cards.

4

On the twentieth, Drakasha gave up on the easterly course and put them west by north with the wind on the starboard beam. The weather held; they cooked by day and sweated by night, and the ship sailed beneath streams of flit-wraiths that hung over the water like arches of ghostly green light.

On the twenty-first, as the promise of dawn was just greying the eastern sky, they had their chance to prove themselves.

Locke was knocked out of a too-short sleep by an elbow to the ribs. He awoke to confusion; the men of the scrub watch were shifting, stumbling and muttering all around him. "Sail ho,"said Jean.

"Heard it from the masthead just a minute ago," said someone near the door. "Two points off the starboard quarter. That's well east and a little north of us, hull down.". "That's good," said Jabril, yawning. "The dawn glimpse."

"Dawn?" It still looked dark, and Locke rubbed his sleep-blurred eyes. "Dawn already? Since I no longer have to pretend to know what the hell I'm doing, what's a dawn glimpse?"

"Sun's coming up over the horizon, see?" Jabril appeared to relish the chance to lecture Locke. "Over in the east. We're still in shadow over here, to the west a" them. Hard to see us, but we got a good eye on them with that faint light behind their masts, savvy?" "Right," said Locke. "Sounds like a good thing." "We're for her," said Aspel. "We'll move in and take her. This ship is loaded with crew, and Drakasha's a bloody-handed bitch." "It's a fight for us," said Streva. "We'll go first."

"Aye, and prove ourselves," said Aspel. "Prove ourselves and be quits with this scrub watch shit."

"Don't be tying silver ribbons on your cock just yet," said Jabril. "We don't know her heading, or what speed she makes, or what her best point of sailing is. She might be a ship of war. Alight even be part of a squadron."

"Be fucked, Jabbi," said someone without real malice. "Don't you want to be gone from scrub watch?"

"Hey, time comes to board her, I'll row the boat naked and attack the bastards with my good fuckin" looks. Just wait and see if she's prey, is all I'm sayin"."

There was noise and commotion on deck; orders were shouted. The men at the entrance strained to hear and see everything.

"Delmastro's sending people up the lines," said one of them. "Looks like we're going to come north a few points. They" re doing it quicklike."

"Nothing's more suspicious than a sudden change of sail, if they see us," said Jabril. "She wants us to be nearer their course before we're spotted, so it looks natural."

Minutes passed; Locke blinked and settled back down against his familiar bulkhead. If action wasn't imminent, there was always time for a few more minutes of sleep. From the groaning and shuffling around him, he wasn't alone in that opinion.

He awoke a few minutes later — the sky visible through the ventilation hatch was lighter grey — to Lieutenant Delmastro's voice coming from the undercastle entrance.

"… where you are for now. Keep quiet and out of sight. It's about five minutes to the switchover from Red to Blue, but we're suspending regular watches for action. We'll be sending Red down in bits and pieces, and half of Blue will come up to replace them. We want to look like a merchant brig, not a prowler with a heavy crew."

Locke craned his neck to look out over the shadowy shapes around him. Just past Delmastro, in the predawn murk, he could see crewfolk at the waist wrestling several large barrels toward the ship's larboard rail. "Smoke-barrels on deck," called a woman.

"No open flames on deck," shouted Ezri. "No smoking. Alchemical lights only. Pass the word."

Minutes passed, and the light of dawn grew steadily. Locke nonetheless found his eyelids creeping back downward. He sighed relaxed, and-

"On deck there," came a shout from the foremast head, "send to the captain she's got three masts, and she's north-west by west. Topsails."

"Aye, three masts, north-west by west, topsails," shouted Ezri. "How does she bear?" "Broad on the starboard beam, aft a point, maybe." "Keep sharp. Is she still hull down?" "Aye."

"The moment she lifts her skirts over that horizon, you peek and tell us what's under them." Ezri returned to the undercastle and pounded loudly on the bulkhead beside the entrance. "Scrub watch, rouse up. Stretch your legs and use the craplines, then get back under here. Be quick. We'll be fighting or running soon enough. Best to have your innards in good order."

It was less like moving with a crowd than being squeezed from a tube. Locke found himself pushed on deck, and he curled his back and stretched. Jean did likewise, then stepped up beside Delmastro. Locke raised an eyebrow; the little lieutenant seemed to tolerate Jean's conversation to the same extent that she disdained his. So long as one of them was getting information from her, he supposed. "Do you really think we'll be running?" asked Jean.

"I'd prefer not." Delmastro squinted over the rail, but even from Locke's perspective the new ship couldn't be seen on deck just yet.

"You know," said Jean, "it's to be expected that you won't see anything from down there. You should let me put you on my shoulders."

"A short joke," said Delmastro. "How remarkably original. I" ve never heard the like in all my days. I'll have you know I'm the tallest of all my sisters." "Sisters," said Jean. "Interesting. A bit of your past for free?"

"Shit," she said, scowling. "Leave me alone, Valora. It's going to be a busy morning."

Men were returning from the craplines. Now that the press had lessened, Locke climbed the stairs and made his way forward to do his own business. He had sufficient unpleasant experience by now to elbow his way to the weather side — damned unfortunate things could happen to those on the lee craplines in any kind of wind — of the little wooden brace that crossed the bowsprit just a yard or two out from the forepeak. It had ratlines hanging beneath it like a miniature yardarm, and against these Locke braced his feet while he undid his breeches. Waves pounded white against the bow, and spray rose to splash the backs of his legs. "Gods," he said, "to think that pissing could be such an adventure."

"On deck, there," came the cry from the foremast a moment later. "She's a flute, she is. Round and fat. Holding course and sail as before." "What colours?" "None to be seen, Lieutenant."

A flute. Locke recognized the term — a round-sterned merchantman with a homely curved bow. Handy for cargo, but a brig like the Orchid could dance around it at will. No pirate or military expedition would make use of such a vessel. As soon as they could draw her in, thed'r likely have their fight. "Ha," he muttered, "and here I am, caught with my breeches down."

5

The sun rose molten behind their target, framing the low, black shape in a half-circle of crimson. Locke was on his knees at the starboard rail of the forecastle, trying to stay unobtrusive. He squinted and put a hand over his eyes to cut the glare. The eastern sky was a bonfire aura of pink and red; the sea like liquid ruby spreading in a stain from the climbing sun.

A dirty black smear of smoke a few yards wide rose from the lee side of the Poison Orchid's waist, an ominous intrusion into the clean dawn air. Lieutenant Delmastro was tending the smoke-barrels herself. The Orchid was making way under topsails with her main and forecourses furled; conveniently, it was both a logical plan of sail for this breeze and the first precaution they would have taken if the ship were really on fire.

"Come on, you miserable twits," said Jean, who was seated beside him. "Glance left, for Perelandro's sake."

"Maybe they do see us," said Locke. "Maybe they just don't give a damn." "They haven't changed a sail," said Jean, "or we would" ve heard about it from the lookouts. They must be the most incurious, myopic, dim-witted buggers that ever set canvas to mast."

"On deck there!" The foremast lookout sounded excited. "Send to the captain she's turning to larboard!"

"How far?" Delmastro stepped away from her smoke-barrels. "Is she coming about to head right for us?" "No, she's come about three points around."

"They want to have a closer look," said Jean, "but they're not hopping into the hammock with us just yet."

There was a shout from the quarterdeck, and a moment later Delmastro blew her whistle three times. "Scrub watch! Scrub watch to the quarterdeck!"

They hurried aft, past crewfolk removing well-oiled bows from canvas covers and stringing them. As Delmastro had promised, about half the usual watch was on deck; those involved in preparing weapons were crouched down or hiding behind the masts and the chicken coops. Drakasha was waiting for them at the quarterdeck rail, and she started speaking the moment they arrived.

"They still have time and room enough to put about. It's a flute, and I doubt they could run from us for ever in any weather, but they could make us work for the catch. My guess is six or seven hours, but who wants to be bored for that long? We'll pose as a charter brig on fire and see if we can't entice them to do the sociable thing.

"I offered you a chance to prove yourselves, so you're the teeth of the trap. You'll fight first. Good on you if you come back. If you don't want to fight, get under the forecastle and stay scrub watch until we're quits with you.

"As for me, I woke up hungry this morning. I mean to have that fat little prize. Who among you would fight for a place on my ship?"

Locke and Jean thrust their arms into the air, along with everyone nearby. Locke glanced quickly around and saw that nobody was declining their chance.

"Good," said Drakasha. "We've three boats, seating about thirty. You'll have them. Your task will be to look innocent at first; stay near the Orchid. At the signal, you'll dash out and attack from the south." "Captain," said Jabril, "what if we can't take her ourselves?"

"If numbers or circumstances are against you, hold fast to whatever scrap of deck you can. I'll bring the Orchid alongside and grapple to her. Nothing that ship carries can stand against a hundred fresh boarders."

A fine comfort that'll be to those of us already dead or dying, Locke thought. The reality of what they were about to do had only just come home to him, and he felt an anxious fluttering in his stomach.

"Captain!" One of the lookouts was hailing from the maintop. "She's sent up Talishani colours!"

"She might be lying," muttered Jabril. "Decent bluff. If you're going to fly a false flag, Talisham's got a bit of a navy. And nobody's at war with "em right now."

"Not too clever, though," said Jean. "If she had escorts in sight, why not fly it at all times? Only someone with cause to be worried hides their colours." "Aye. Them and pirates."Jabril grinned.

Captain Drakasha shouted across the crowd: "Del! Have one of your smoke-barrels sent over to the starboard rail. Just forward of the quarterdeck stairs." "You want smoke from the weather rail, Captain?"

"A good smudge right across the quarterdeck," said Drakasha. "If they want to chat with signal flags, we need an excuse to keep mum."

The lanky sailing master, holding the wheel a few feet behind Drakasha, cleared his throat loudly. She smiled, then seemed to have an idea. Turning to a sailor on her left, she said: "Get three signal pennants from the flag chest and let them fly from the stern. Yellow over yellow over yellow."

"All souls in peril? said Jean. "That's a come-hither look, and no fooling." "I thought it was just a distress signal," said Locke.

"Should" ve read the book more closely. Three yellow pennants says we're so hard up that we'll legally grant them salvage rights to anything we're not carrying on our persons. They save it, they own it."

Delmastro and her crew had moved a smoke-barrel into position at the starboard rail and lit it with a bit of twist-match. Grey tendrils of smoke began to snake up and over the quarterdeck, chasing the darker black cloud rising from the lee side. At the taffrail, a pair of sailors was sending up three fluttering yellow pennants.

"Extra lookouts aloft and at the rails to give Mumchance a hand," called Drakasha. "Archers up one at a time. Keep your weapons down in the tops; stay out of sight if you can and play meek until I give the signal."

"Captain!" The mainmast lookouts were shouting down once more. "She's turned to cut our path and she's adding sail!"

"Funny how tender-hearted they get as soon as they see that signal," said Drakasha. "Utgar!"

A fairly young Vadran, the skin of his shaved head red-baked over a braided black beard, appeared just beside Lieutenant Delmastro.

"Hide Paolo and Cosetta on the orlop deck," said Zamira. "We're about to cause an argument." "Aye," he said, and hurried up the quarterdeck stairs.

"As for you," said Drakasha, returning her attention to the scrub watch, "hatchets and sabres are set out at the foremast. Take your choice and wait to help send the boats down." "Captain Drakasha!" "What is it, Ravelle?""

Locke cleared his throat and offered a silent prayer to the Nameless Thirteenth that he knew what he was doing. The time for a gesture was now; if he didn't do something to restore a bit of prestige to Ravelle, he'd end up as just another member of the crew, shunned for his past failure. He needed to be respected if he expected to achieve any part of his mission. That meant a grand act of foolishness.

"It's my fault that these men nearly died aboard the Messenger. They were my crew, and I should have looked after them better. I'd like the chance to do that now. I want… the first seat on the lead boat." "You expect me to let you command the attack?"

"Not command," said Locke, "just go up the side first. Whatever's there to bleed us, let it bleed me first. Maybe I can spare whoever comes up next."

"That means me as well," said Jean, placing a hand on Locke's shoulder, somewhat protectively. "I go where he goes." Gods bless you, Jean, thought Locke.

"If it's your ambition to stop a crossbow bolt," said Drakasha, "I won't say no." She looked a bit taken aback, however, and she gave the tiniest fraction of an approving nod to Locke as the crowd began to break up and head forward for their weapons.

"Captain!" Lieutenant Delmastro stepped forward, her hands and forearms covered in soot from the smoke-barrels. She glanced at Locke and Jean as she spoke. "Just who is leading the cutting-out boats anyway?"

"Free-for-all, Del. I'm sending one Orchid per boat to hold them; what the scrub watch does after they climb the sides is their business." "I want the boats."

Drakasha stared at her for several seconds, and said nothing. She was wreathed in grey smoke from the waist down.

"I had nothing to do when we took the Messenger, Captain," Delma-stro said hastily. "In fact, I haven't had any real fun with a prize for weeks."

Drakasha flicked her gaze over Jean and frowned. "You crave an indulgence." "Aye. But a useful one."

Drakasha sighed. "You have the boats, Del. Mind you, Ravelle gets his wish."

Translation: if he takes an arrow for anyone, make sure its you, thought Locke.

"You won't regret it, Captain. Scrub watch! Arm yourselves and meet me at the waist!" Delmastro dashed up the quarterdeck stairs, past Utgar, who was leading the Drakasha children along with one clinging tightly to either hand.

"You're a bold and stupid fellow, Ravelle," said Jabril. "I think I almost like you again."

"… at least he can fight, we know that much," Locke heard one of the other men saying. "You should" ve seen him take care of the guard the night we got the Messenger. Pow! One little punch folded him right up. He'll show us a thing or two this morning. You wait."

Locke was suddenly very glad he'd already pissed everything he had to piss.

At the waist, an older crew-woman stood watch over small barrels packed full of the promised hatchets and sabres. Jean drew out a pair of hatchets, hefted them and frowned as Locke hesitated before the barrels. "You have any idea what you're doing?" he whispered. "None whatsoever," said Locke. "Take a sabre and try to look comfortable." Locke drew a sabre and gazed at it as though immensely satisfied.

"Anyone with a belt," shouted Jean, "grab a second weapon and tuck it in. You never know when you or someone else might need it."

As half a dozen men took his advice, he sidled up to Locke and whispered again: "Stay right beside me. Just… keep up with me and stand tall. Maybe they won't have bows."

Lieutenant Delmastro returned to their midst, wearing her black leather vest and bracers, as well as her knife-packed weapon belt. Locke noticed that the curved handguards of her sabres were studded with what looked like jagged chips of Elderglass.

"Here, Valora." She tossed a leather fighting collar to Jean and held her tightly tailed hair up to leave her neck fully exposed. "Help a girl out."

Jean placed the collar around her neck and clasped it behind her head. She tugged it once, nodded and put up her arms. "Listen! Until we make an unfriendly move, you're wealthy passengers and land-sucking snobs, sent out in the boats to save your precious skins."

A pair of crewmen was making the rounds of the scrub watch, handing out fine hats, brocaded jackets and other fripperies. Delmastro seized a silk parasol and shoved it into Locke's hands. "There you go, Ravelle. That might deflect some harm."

Locke shook the folded parasol over his head with exaggerated belligerence, and got some nervous laughter in exchange.

"Like the captain said, it'll be one Orchid per boat, to make sure they come back even if you don't," said Delmastro. "I'll take Ravelle and Valora with me, in the little boat you donated from the Messenger. Plus you and you." She pointed to Streva and Jabril. "Whatever else happens, we're first to the side and first up."

Oscarl, the boatswain, appeared with a small party of assistants carrying lines and blocks to begin rigging hoisting gear.

"One thing more," said Delmastro. "If they ask for quarter, give it. If they drop their weapons, respect it. If they carry on fighting, slaughter them where they fucking stand. And if you start to feel sorry for them, just remember what signal we had to fly to get them to lend aid to a ship on fire."

6

From the water, the illusion of that fire looked complete to Locke's eyes. All the smoke-barrels were going now; the ship trailed a black and grey cloud that all but enveloped its quarterdeck. The figure of Zamira appeared now and again, her spyglass briefly catching the sun before she vanished back into the darkness. A team of crewmen had rigged small pumps and canvas hoses amidships (at the rail, where they could best be seen), and they were directing streams of water at the cloud of smoke, though actually doing nothing but washing the deck.

Locke sat at the bow of the little boat, feeling vaguely ridiculous with his parasol in hand and a cloth-of-silver jacket draped over his shoulders like a cape. Jean and Jabril shared the forward rowing bench, Streva and Lieutenant Delmastro were behind them, and a very small crewman named Vitorre — little more than a boy — crouched in the stern to take over from them when they boarded the flute.

That ship, her curiously round and wallowing hull-curves now plainly visible, was angled somewhat away from them to the north. Locke estimated that she would cross paths with the Poison Orchid, or very nearly so, in about ten minutes.

"Let's start rowing for her," said Delmastro. "They'll expect it by now."

Their boat and the two larger ones had been keeping station about a hundred yards south-east of the Orchid. As the four rowers in the lead boat began to pull north, Locke saw the others catch their cue and follow.

They bobbed and slipped across the foot-high waves. The sun was up and its heat was building; it had been half-past the seventh hour of the morning when thed'r left the ship. The oars creaked rhythmically in their locks; now they were abreast with the Orchid, and the newcomer was about half a mile to their north-east. If the flute caught wind of the trap and tried to flee to the north, the ship would loose canvas to fly after her. If she tried to flee south, however, it would be up to the boats to slip into her path.

"Ravelle," said Delmastro, "at your feet, the breaching shears. You see them?"

Locke looked down. Tucked away beneath his seat was an ugly-looking hinged device with a pair of wooden handles. These handles worked a metal jaw. "I think so."

"Bows aren't our biggest problem. The most trouble they can give us is if they rig razor-nets against boarding — we'll slash ourselves to pieces trying to climb on deck. If those nets are rigged, you must use those shears to cut a slit for us." "Or die trying," he said. "I think I get it."

"But the good news is, rigging razor-nets is a pain in the arse. And they won't be up at all if they're expecting to send out boats and receive passengers. If we can just get close enough before we tip our hand, they won't have tune to use them." "What's the signal to tip our hand?" "You won't miss it. Trust me."

7

Zamira Drakasha stood at the starboard quarterdeck rail, taking a break from the smoke. She studied the approaching flute through her glass; there was elaborate ornamentation on the stubby forepeak, and a somewhat whimsical gold and black paint scheme along her tall sides. That was agreeable; if she was well maintained she was likely to be carrying a respectable cargo and a bit of coin.

A pair of officers stood at the bow, studying her ship through their own glasses. She waved in what she hoped was an encouraging fashion, but received no response.

"Well, fine," she muttered. "You'll be rendering your courtesies soon enough."

The small, dark shapes of crew rushed about on the flute, now just a quarter-mile distant. Her sails were shuddering, her hull elongating in Zamira's view — were they running? No, just killing momentum, turning a point or two to starboard, aiming to get close but not too close. She could see a pump-and-hose team at work amidships, shooting a stream of water upward to wet the flute's lower sails. Very sensible, when coming anywhere near a fire at sea. "Signal party," she said, "stand ready."

"Aye, Captain," came a chorus of voices from within the smoke-shrouded portion of the quarterdeck.

Her own boats were cutting the waves between the two ships. There was Ravelle in the lead with his parasol, looking a bit like a thin silver mushroom with a soft white cap. And there was Valora, and there was Ezri… damn it. Ezri's request had given her little choice but to acquiesce or look foolish in front of the scrub watch. There" d be words for that little woman… if the gods blessed Zamira enough to send her lieutenant back alive.

She studied the flute's officers, who'd moved from the bow to the larboard rail. Wide fellows, it seemed, a bit overdressed for the heat. Her eyes were not what thed'r been twenty-five years ago… Were they prodding one another, looking more intently through their glasses? "Captain?" asked a member of the signal party.

"Hold," she said, "hold…" Every second closed the gap between the Orchid and her victim. Thed'r slowed and turned, but leeway would bring them closer still… closer still. One of the flute's officers pointed, then grabbed the other by the shoulder and pointed again. Their glasses flew up in unison.

"Ha!" Zamira cried. Not a chance they could slip away now. She felt new zeal lending strength to her every step and motion; she felt half her years fall from her shoulders. Gods, the moment they realized just how fucked they were was always sweet. She slammed her spyglass shut, snatched her speaking trumpet from the deck and hollered across the length of the ship.

"Archers ready at the tops! All hands on deck! All hands on deck and man the starboard rail! Stifle smoke-barrels!"

The Poison Orchid shuddered; seven dozen hands were pounding up the ladders, surging out of the hatchways, armed and armoured, screaming as they came. Archers stepped out from behind the masts, knelt on their fighting platforms and nocked arrows to their gleaming bows.

Zamira didn't need her glass to see the shapes of officers and crew running about frantically on the flute's deck.

"Let's give "em something that'll really make "em piss their breeches," she shouted, not bothering with the speaking trumpet. "HOIST OUR CRIMSON!"

The three yellow pennants streaming above the quarterdeck shuddered, then plummeted straight down into the grey haze. From out of the last of the black and boiling smoke rose a broad red banner, bright as the morning sun looming above a storm.

8

"With a will," shouted Lieutenant Delmastro, "with a will!" As the blood-red flag rose to its full prominence above the stern of the Orchid and the first of the horde of maniacally cheering crewfolk began to crowd her starboard rail, the three boats surged across the waves.

Locke shed his parasol and jacket, tossing them overboard before remembering that they were worth quite a bit of money. He breathed in excited gasps, glancing over his shoulder at the fast-approaching side of the flute, a sheer wooden surface that loomed like a floating castle. Dear gods, he was going into battle. What the fuck was the matter with him?

He bit the insides of his cheeks for concentration and held on to the gunwales with white knuckles. Damn it, this was no grand gesture. He couldn't afford this. He breathed deep to steady himself.

Locke Lamora was small, but the Thorn of Camorr was larger than any of this. The Thorn couldn't be touched by blade or spell or scorn. Locke thought of the Falconer, bleeding at his feet. He thought of the Grey King, dead beneath his knife. He thought of the fortunes that had run through his fingers, and he smiled.

Steadily, carefully, he drew his sabre and began to wave it in the air. The three boats were nearly abreast now, slashing white triangles of wake on the sea, a minute from their target. Locke meant to hit it wearing the biggest lie of his life like a costume. He might be dead in a few moments, but until then, by the gods, he was the Thorn of Camorr. He was Captain Orrin fucking Ravelle.

"Orchids! Orchids!" He made a statue of himself at the bow of the boat, thrusting with his sabre as though he meant to ram the flute and punch a hole in her side all by himself. "Pull for the prize! Pull for yourselves! Follow me, Orchids! Richer and cleverer than everyone else!"

The Poison Orchid slipped ahead of the last of her smoke, streaming grey lines from her quarterdeck as though evading the grasp of some godlike ghostly hand. The teeming crewfolk at her rail cheered again and then fell silent together. The ship's sails began to flutter. Drakasha was tacking, with haste, to bring the ship sharply around to starboard. If she pulled it off she would snug up, on the larboard tack, right alongside the flute at knife-fighting distance.

The sudden silence of the Orchids allowed Locke to hear noises from the flute for the first time — orders, panic, arguments, consternation. And then, over everything else, a tinny and desperate voice shouting through a speaking trumpet:

"Save us! For the love of the gods, please… please get over here and save usP

"Shit. That's a little different from what we usually get," said Delma-stro.

Locke had no time to think; they were up to the flute's hull, bumping hard against the wall of wet planks on her lee side. The ship was slightly heeled over, creating the illusion that she was about to topple and crush them. Miraculously, there were shrouds and a boarding net within easy reach. Locke leapt for the net, sword-arm raised.

"Orchids," he cried as he climbed the rough, wet hemp in an exultation of fear, "Orchids! Follow me!"

The moment of truth: his left hand found the deck at the top of the boarding net. Gritting his teeth, he swept upward with his sabre, clumsily and viciously, in case anyone was waiting at the edge of the deck. Then he heaved himself up, rolled under the rail — he'd missed the entry port by a few yards — and stumbled to his feet, screaming like a madman.

The deck was all chaos, and none of it meant for him. There were no razor-nets, no archers, no walls of polearms or swords waiting to receive the boarders. Crewmen and — women ran about in a panic. An abandoned fire hose lay on the deck at Locke's feet like a dead brown snake, gurgling seawater into a spreading puddle.

A crewman skidded through that puddle and slammed into him, flailing. Locke raised his sabre and the crewman cringed, throwing up his hands to show that they were empty.

"We tried to surrender," the crewman gasped. "We tried! They wouldn't let us! Gods, help us!" "Who? Who wouldn't let you surrender?"

The crewman pointed to the ship's raised quarterdeck, and Locke whirled to see what was there. "Aw, hell," he whispered.

There had to be at least twenty of them, all men, cast from the same mould. Tanned, stocky, muscular. Their beards were neatly trimmed, their shoulder-length hair bound in rattling strings of beads. Their heads were wrapped with bright-green cloths, and Locke knew from past experience that what looked like thin, dark sleeves covering their arms was actually holy verse, tattooed so thickly in black and green ink that every trace of the skin beneath was lost.

Jeremite Redeemers. Religious maniacs who believed that they were the only possible salvation for the sins of their wicked island. They made themselves living sacrifices to the Jeremite gods, wandering the world in exile groups, living polite as monks until someone, anyone, threatened them.

Their sacred vow was to kill or be killed when offered violence; to die honourably for Jerem, or to ruthlessly exterminate anyone who raised a hand against them. All of them were looking very, very intently at Locke.

"The heathen offers a red cleansing!" A Redeemer at the head of the group pointed at Locke and hoisted his brass-studded witchwood club. "Wash our souls in heathen blood! SLAY FOR HOLY JEREM!"

Weapons high, they rushed the quarterdeck stairs and surged down them, fixed on Locke, all the while demonstrating just how madmen really screamed. A crewman tried to stumble out of their way and was swatted down, his skull cracking like a melon beneath the club of the leader. The others trampled his body as they charged.

Locke couldn't help himself. The spectacle of that onrushing, battle-hardened, completely insane death was so far beyond anything in his experience, he coughed out a burst of startled laughter. He was scared to the marrow, and in that there was sudden, absolute freedom. He raised his one useless sabre and flung himself into a counter-charge, feeling light as dust on a breeze, hollering as he ran:

"Come, then! Face Ravelle! The gods have sent your doom, MOTHER FUCKERS!

He should have died a few seconds later. It was Jean, as usual, who had other plans.

The Jeremite leader bore down on Locke, twice his weight-worth of murderous fanatic, blood and sunlight gleaming on the studs of his raised club. Then there was a hatchet where his face had been, the handle protruding from the shattered hollow of an eye. Impact, not with the club but with the suddenly senseless corpse, slammed Locke to the deck and knocked the air from his lungs. Hot blood sprayed across his face and neck, and he struggled furiously to free himself from beneath the twitching body. The deck around him was suddenly full of shapes kicking, stomping, screaming and falling.

The world dissolved into disconnected images and sensations. Locke barely had time to catalogue them as they flashed by-

Axes and spears meant for him sinking into the body of the Jeremite leader. A desperate lunge with his sabre, and the shock of impact as it sank into the unprotected hollow of a Redeemer's thigh. Jean hauling him to his feet. Jabril and Streva pulling other Orchids onto the deck. Lieutenant Delmastro, fighting beside Jean, turning a Redeemer's face to raw red paste with the glass-studded guard of one of her sabres. Shadows, movements, discordant shouts. It was impossible to stay next to Jean; the press of Redeemers was too thick, the number of incoming blows too great. Locke was knocked down again by a falling body and he rolled to his left, slashing blindly, frantically as he went. The deck and the sky spun around him until suddenly he was rolling into thin air. The grating was off the main cargo hatch.

Desperately he checked himself, scrambling back to his right before he toppled in. A glimpse into the main-deck hold had revealed a trio of Redeemers there, too. He stumbled to his feet and was immediately attacked by another Jeremite; parrying slash after slash, he sidestepped left and tried to slip away from the edge of the cargo hatch. No good: a second antagonist appeared, blood-drenched spear at the ready.

Locke knew he'd never be able to fight or dodge the pair of them with an open grate behind his feet. He thought quickly. The flute's crew had been in the process of shifting a heavy barrel from the main-deck hold when the attack had come. That cask, four or five feet in diameter, hung in netting above the mouth of the cargo hatch.

Locke lashed out wildly at his two opponents, aiming only to force them back. Then he spun on his heels and leapt for all he was worth. He struck the hanging cask with a head-jarring thud and clung to the netting, his legs kicking like those of a man treading water. The cask swung like a pendulum as he scrambled atop it.

From there, he briefly enjoyed a decent view of the action. More Orchids were pouring into the fray from the ship's larboard side, and Delmastro and Jean were pushing the main body of Redeemers back up the quarterdeck stairs. Locke's side of the deck was a tangled swirl of opponents: green cloths and bare heads above weapons of every sort.

Suddenly, the Jeremite with the spear was jabbing at him, and the blackened-steel head of the weapon bit wood inches from his leg. Locke flailed back with his sabre, realizing that his suspended haven wasn't as safe as he'd hoped. There were shouts from below — the Redeemers in the hold had noticed him, and meant to do something about him. It was up to him to do something crazy first.

He leapt up, holding fast to one of the lines by which the cask was suspended from a winding-tackle, and dodged another spear thrust. No good trying to cut all the lines leading down from the tackle. That could take minutes. He tried to remember the patterns of ropes and blocks Caldris had drilled into him. His eyes darted along the single taut line that fell from the winding-tackle to a snatch-block at one corner of the cargo hatch. Yes — that line led across the deck,1 ‹ disappearing beneath the throng of combatants. It would run to the capstan, and if it was cut…

Gritting his teeth, he gave the taut line a good slash with the forte of his blade, feeling the sabre bite hemp. A thrown hatchet whizzed past his shoulder, missing by the width of his little finger. He slashed the line again, and again, driving the blade with all the force he could muster. At the fourth stroke, it unravelled with a snap, and the weight of the cask broke it clean in two. Locke rode the barrel down into the hold, his eyes squeezed firmly shut. Someone screamed, saving him the trouble of doing so himself.

The cask struck with a resounding crash. Locke's momentum smacked him down hard against its upper surface. His chin struck wood and he was tossed sideways, landing in an undignified heap on the deck. Warm, smelly liquid washed over him — beer. The cask was gushing it.

Locke climbed back to his feet, groaning. One Redeemer hadn't moved fast enough and was splayed out beneath the cask, clearly dead. The other two had been knocked sideways by the impact and were feeling around groggily for their weapons.

He stumbled over and slit their throats before they knew he was even back on his feet. It wasn't fighting, just thief's work, and he did it mechanically. Then he blinked and looked around for something to clean the blade on; an old and natural thief's habit that nearly got him killed.

A heavy, dark shape splashed into the beer beside him. One of the Jeremites who'd been troubling him above, the one with the spear, had leapt the six or seven feet down into the hold. But the gushing beer was treacherous; the Redeemer's feet went out from under him as he landed and he toppled onto his back. Coldly resigned, Locke drove his sabre into the man's chest, then pried the spear from his dying hands. "Undone by drink," he whispered.

The fight continued above. For the moment, he was alone in the hold with his shoddy little victory.

Four dead, and he'd cheated every one, using luck and surprise and plain skulduggery to do what would have been impossible in a stand-up fight. Knowing that they would never have given or accepted quarter should have made it easier, but the wild abandon of a few minutes before had drained clean away. Orrin Ravelle was a fraud after all; he was plain old Locke Lamora once again. i

He threw up behind a pile of canvas and netting, using the spear to hold himself up until the heaving stopped. "Gods aboveV

Locke wiped his mouth as Jabril and a pair of Orchids slipped down through the cargo hatch, holding on to the rim of the deck rather than leaping. They didn't seem to have caught him puking.

"Four of "em," continued Jabril. His tunic had been partly torn away above a shallow cut on his chest. "Fuck me, Ravelle. I thought Valora scared the piss out of me." Locke took a deep breath to steady himself. "Jerome. Is he all right?"

"Was a minute ago. Saw him and Lieutenant Delmastro fighting on the quarterdeck."

Locke nodded, then gestured aft with his spear. "Stern cabin," he said. "Follow me. Let's finish this."

He led them down the length of the flute's main deck at a run, shoving unarmed, cowering crewfolk out of the way as he passed. The armoured door to the stern cabin was shut, and behind it Locke could hear the sound of frantic activity. He pounded on the door.

"We know you're in there," he yelled, and then turned to Jabril with a tired grin. "This seems awfully familiar, doesn't it?" "You won't get through that door," came a muffled shout from within. "Give it some shoulder," said Jabril.

"Let me try being terribly clever first," said Locke. Then, raising his voice: "First point, this door may be armoured, but your stern windows are glass. Second point, open this fucking door by the count of ten or I'll have every surviving crewman and — woman put to death on the quarterdeck. You can listen while you're doing whatever it is you're doing in there."

A pause; Locke opened his mouth to begin counting. Suddenly, with the ratcheting clack of heavy clockwork, the door creaked open and a short, middle-aged man in a long black jacket appeared.

"Please don't," he said. "I surrender. I would have done it sooner, but the Redeemers wouldn't have it. I locked myself in after they chased me down here. Kill me if you like, but spare my crew."

"Don't be stupid," said Locke. "We don't kill anyone who doesn't fight back. Though I suppose it's nice to know you're not a complete arsehole. Ship's master, I presume?" "Antoro Nera, at your service." Locke grabbed him by his lapels and began dragging him toward the companionway. "Let's go on deck, Master Nera. I think we've dealt with your Redeemers. What the hell were they doing aboard, anyway? Passengers?" "Security," muttered Nera. Locke stopped in his tracks.

"Are you so fucking dim-witted that you didn't know thed'r go berserk the first time someone dangled a fight in front of their noses?"

"I didn't want them! The owners insisted. Redeemers work for nothing but food and passage. Owners thought… perhaps thed'r scare off anyone looking for trouble."

"A fine theory. Only works if you advertise their presence, though. We didn't know they were aboard until they were charging us in a fucking phalanx."

Locke went up the companionway, dragging Nera behind him, followed by Jabril and the others. They emerged into the bright light of morning on the quarterdeck. One of the men was hauling down the flute's colours, and he was knee-deep in bodies.

There were at least a dozen of them. Redeemers, mostly, with their green head-cloths fluttering and their expressions strangely satisfied. But here and there were unfortunate crewfolk, and at the head of the stairs a familiar face — Aspel, the front of his chest a bloody ruin.

Locke glanced around frantically and sighed when he saw Jean, apparently untouched, crouched near the starboard rail. Lieutenant Delmastro was at his feet, her hair unbound, blood running down her right arm. As Locke watched, Jean tore a strip of cloth from the bottom of his own tunic and began binding one of her wounds.

Locke felt a pang that was half-relief and half-melancholy; usually it was him that Jean was picking up in bloody pieces at the end of a fight. Ducking away from Jean had been a matter of split-second necessity in the heat of the struggle. He realized that he was strangely disquieted that Jean hadn't followed him, relentlessly at his heels, looking after him as always. Don't be an ass, he thought. Jean had his own bloody problems. "Jerome," he said.

Jean's head darted around, and his lips nearly formed an "L"-sound before he got himself under control. "Orrin! You're a mess! Gods, are you all right?"

A mess? Locke looked down and discovered that nearly every inch of his clothing was soaked in blood. He ran a hand over his face. What he'd taken for sweat or beer came away red on his palm. "None of it's mine," he said. "I think."

"I was about to come looking for you," said Jean. "Ezri… Lieutenant Delmastro…"

"I'll be fine," she groaned. "Bastard tried to hit me with a mizzenmast. Just knocked the wind out of me."

Locke spotted one of the huge brass-studded clubs lying on the deck near her, and just beyond it, a dead Redeemer with one of Delmastro's characteristic sabres planted in his throat.

"Lieutenant Delmastro," said Locke, "I" ve brought the ship's master. Allow me to introduce Antoro Nera."

Delmastro pushed Jean's hands away and crawled past him for a better view. Lines of blood ran from cuts on her lip and forehead.

"Master Nera. Well met. I represent the side that's still standing. Appearances to the contrary." She grinned and wiped at the blood above her eyes. "I'll be responsible for arranging larceny once we've secured your ship, so don't piss me off. Speaking of which, what ship is this?" "Kingfisher," said Nera. "Cargo and destination?" "Tal Verrar, with spices, wine, turpentine and fine woods."

"That and a fat load of Jeremite Redeemers. No, shut up. You can explain later. Gods, Ravelle, you have been busy."

"Too fucking right," said Jabril, slapping him on the back. "He killed four of them himself in the hold. Rode a beer-cask down on one and must" ve fought the other three straight up."Jabril snapped his fingers. "Like that."

Locke sighed and felt his cheeks warming. He reached up and put a bit of the blood back where he'd found it.

"Well," said Delmastro, "I won't say that I'm not surprised, but I am pleased. You're not fit to tend so much as a fishing boat, Ravelle, but you can lead boarding parties whenever you like. I think we just redeemed about half of Jerem." "You're too kind," said Locke.

"Can you get this ship into order for me? Clear the decks of crewfolk and put them all under guard at the forecastle?" "I can. Will she be all right, Jerome?" "She's been smacked around and cut up a bit, but—"

"I" ve had worse," she said. "I" ve had worse, and I" ve certainly given it back You can go with Ravelle if you like." "I-" "Don't make me hit you. I'll be fine."

Jean stood up and came over to Locke, who shoved Nera gently toward Jabril.

"Jabril, would you escort our new friend to the forecastle while Jerome and I scrape up the rest of his crew?" "Aye, be pleased to."

Locke led Jean down the quarterdeck stairs, into the tangle of bodies amidships. More Redeemers, more crewfolk… and five or six of the men he'd pulled out of the Windward Rock three weeks before. He was uncomfortably aware that the survivors all seemed to be staring at him. He caught snatches of their conversation: "… laughing, he was…" "Saw it as I came up the side. Charged them all by himself…"

"Never seen the like." That was Streva, whose left arm looked broken. "Laughed and laughed. Fucking fearless."

"… "The gods send your doom, motherfuckers". That's what he told them. I heard it…"

"They" re right, you know," whispered Jean. "I" ve seen you do some brave and crazy shit, but that was… that was—"

"It was all crazy and none brave. I was out of my fucking head, get it? I was so scared shitless I didn't know what I was doing." "But in the hold below—"

"I dropped a cask on one," said Locke. "Two more got their throats slit while they were still dumb. The last was kind enough to slip in beer and make it easy. Same as always, Jean. I'm no bloody warrior." "But now they think you are. You pulled it off."

They found Mai, slumped against the mainmast, unmoving. His hands were curled around the sword buried in his stomach, as though he was trying to keep it safe. Locke sighed.

"I have what you might call mixed feelings about that right now," he said.

Jean knelt down and pushed Mai's eyelids closed. "I know what you mean." He paused, seeming to weight his words before continuing. "We have a serious problem." "Really? Us, problems? What ever could you mean?"

"These people are our people. These people are thieves. Surely you see it, too. We can't sell them out to Stragos." "Then we'll die." "We both know Stragos means to kill us anyway—"

"The longer we string him along," said Locke, "the closer we get to pulling off some part of our mission, the closer we are to a real antidote. The more time we get, the greater the chance he'll slip… and we can do something."

"We can do something by siding with our own kind. Look around you, for the gods" sake. All these people do to live is steal. They" re us. The mandates we live by—" "Don't fucking lecture me about propriety!" "Why not? You seem to need it—"

"I" ve done my duty by the men we brought from Tal Verrar, Jean, but they and all of these people are strangers. I aim to have Stragos weeping for what he's done, and if I can spare them to achieve that, by the gods, I'll spare them. But if I have to sink this ship and a dozen like it to bring him down, I'll damn well do that, too."

"Gods," Jean whispered. "Listen you yourself. I thought I was Camorri. You're the pure essence. A moment ago you were morose for the sake of these people. Now you" d fucking drown them all for the sake of your revenge!" "Our revenge," said Locke. "Our lives." "There has to be another way."

"What do you propose, then? Stay out here? Spend a merry few weeks in the Ghostwinds and then politely dieV "If necessary,"said Jean.

The Poison Orchid, under reduced sail, drew near the stern of the Kingfisher, putting herself between the flute and the wind. The men and women lining the Orchid's rail let loose with three raucous cheers, each one louder than the last.

"Hear that? They" re not cheering the scrub watch," said Jean. "They" re cheering their own. That's what we are, now. Part of all this." "They" re str—" "They" re not strangers? said Jean.

"Well." Locke glanced aft, at Lieutenant Delmastro, who'd risen to her feet and taken the Kingfisher's wheel. "Maybe some of them are less strange to you than they are to me." "Now, wait just a—"

"Do what you have to do to pass the time out here," said Locke, scowling, "but don't forget where you come from. Stragos is our business. Beating him is our business."

"Pass the time?" Pass the gods-damned time}" Jean sucked in an angry breath. He clenched his fists and for a second looked as though he might grab Locke and shake him. "Gods, I see what's twisting under your skin. Look, you may be resigned to the fact that the only woman you'll ever consider is years gone. But you" ve been screwed down so tight about that, for so long, that you seem to think the rest of the world keeps your habits." Locke felt as though he'd been stabbed. "Jean, don't you even—"

"Why not? Why not} We carry your precious misery with us like a holy fucking relic. Don't talk about Sabetha Belacoros. Don't talk about the plays. Don't talk about Jasmer, or Espara, or any of the schemes we ran. I lived with her for nine years, same as you, and I" ve pretended she doesn't fucking exist to avoid upsetting you. Well, I'm not you. I'm not content to live like an oath-bound monk. I have a life outside your gods-damned shadow." Locke stepped back. "Jean, I don't… I didn't—" "And stop calling me Jean, for fuck's sake."

"Of course," said Locke coldly. "Of course. If we keep this up we'll be breaking character for good. I can prowl below myself. You get back to Delmastro. She's holding on to that wheel to stay on her bloody feet." "But-" "Go," said Locke.

"Fine." Jean turned to leave, then paused one last time. "But understand — / can't do it. I'll follow you to any fate, and you know it, but I can't fuck these people over, even for our own sake. And even if you think it's for our sake… I can't let you do it, either." "What the hell does that mean?"

"It means you have a lot to think about," said Jean, and he stomped away.

Small parties of sailors had begun slipping over from the Orchid. Utgar rushed up to Locke, red-faced with excitement, leading a group of crewfolk carrying lines and fend-offs to help hold the ships alongside one another.

"Sweet Marrows, Ravelle, we just found out about the Redeemers," Utgar said. "Lieutenant told us what you did. Fuckin" amazing! A job well done!"

Locke glanced at the body of Mai resting against the mainmast, and at Jean's back as he approached Delmastro with his hands out to hold her up. Not caring who saw, he flung his sabre down at the deck planks, where it stuck tip-first, quivering from side to side. "Oh, indeed," he said. "It seems I win again. Hooray for winning."

1

"Bring the prisoners forward," said Captain Drakasha.

It was full night on the deck of the Poison Orchid, and the ship rode at anchor beneath a star-pierced sky. The moons had not yet begun to rise. Drakasha stood at the quarterdeck rail, backlit by alchemical lamps, wearing a tarpaulin for a cloak. Her hair was covered by a ludicrous woollen wig, vaguely resembling the ceremonial hairpiece of a Verrari magistrate. The deck fore and aft was crowded with shadowed crewfolk, and in a small clear space amidships stood the prisoners.

Nineteen men from the Red Messenger had survived the morning's fight. Now all nineteen stood, bound hands and feet, in an awkward bunch at the ship's waist. Locke shuffled forward behind Jean and Jabril. "Clerk of the court," said Drakasha, "you have brought us a sad lot."

"A sad lot indeed, Your Honour." Lieutenant Delmastro appeared beside the captain, clutching a rolled scroll and wearing a ridiculous wig of her own.

"As wretched a pack of dissolute, cockless mongrels as I" ve ever seen. Still, I suppose we must try them." "Indeed we must, ma'am." "With what are they charged?"

"Such a litany of crimes as turns the blood to jam." Delmastro opened the scroll and raised her voice as she read. "Wilful refusal of the kind hospitality of the Archon of Tal Verrar. Deliberate flight from the excellent accommodations provided by said Archon at the Windward Rock. Theft of a naval vessel with the stated intention of applying it to a life of piracy." "Disgraceful."

"Just so, Your Honour. Now, the next bit is rather confusing: some are charged with mutiny, while others are charged with incompetence."

"Some this, some that? Clerk of the court, we cannot abide untidiness. Simply charge everyone with everything."

"Understood. The mutineers are now incompetent and the incompetent are also mutineers."

"Excellent. Very excellent, and so very magisterial. No doubt I shall be quoted in books." "Important books, too, ma'am." "What else do these wretches have to answer for?"

"Assault and larceny beneath the red flag, Your Honour. Armed piracy on the Sea of Brass on the twenty-first instant of the month of Festal, this very year."

"Vile, grotesque and contemptible," shouted Drakasha. "Let the record show that I feel as though I may swoon. Tell me, are there any who would speak in defence of the prisoners?" "None, ma'am, as the prisoners are penniless." "Ah. Then under whose laws do they claim any rights or protections?" "None, ma'am. No power on land will claim or aid them."

"Pathetic, and not unexpected. Yet without firm guidance from their betters, perhaps it's only natural that these rodents have shunned virtue like a contagious disease. Perhaps some small chance of clemency may be forthcoming." "Unlikely, ma'am."

"One small matter remains, which may attest to their true character. Clerk of the court, can you describe the nature of their associates and consorts?"

"Only too vividly, Your Honour. They wilfully consort with the officers and crew of the Poison Orchid." "Gods above," cried Drakasha, "did you say Poison Orchid?" "I did indeed, ma'am."

"They are guilty! Guilty on every count! Guilty in every particular, guilty to the utmost and final extremity of all possible human culpability!" Drakasha tore at her wig, then flung it to the deck and jumped up and down upon it. "An excellent verdict, ma'am."

"It is the judgment of this court," said Drakasha, "solemn in its authority and unwavering in its resolution, that for crimes upon the sea, the sea shall have them. Put them over the side! And may the gods not be too hasty in conferring mercy upon their souls." Cheering, the crew surged forth from every direction and surrounded the prisoners. Locke was alternately pushed and pulled along with the crowd to the larboard entry port, where a cargo net lay upon the deck with a sail beneath it. The two were lashed together at the edges. The ex-Messengers were shoved onto the netting and held there while several dozen sailors under Delmastros direction moved to the capstan. "Make ready to execute sentence," said Drakasha. "Heave up," cried Delmastro.

A complex network of pulleys and tackles had been rigged between the lower yards of the foremast and mainmast; as the sailors worked the capstan, the edges of the net drew upward and the Orchids holding the prisoners stepped back. In a few seconds the ex-Messengers were off the deck, squeezed together like animals in a trap. Locke clung to the rough netting to avoid slipping into the centre of the tangled mass of limbs and bodies. There was a generally useless bout of shoving and swearing as the net swung out over the rail and swayed gently in. the darkness fifteen feet above the water. "Clerk of the court, execute the prisoners," said Drakasha. "Give "em a drop, aye!" They wouldn't, thought Locke, at the very same moment they did.

The net full of prisoners plunged, drawing unwilling yelps and screams from the throats of men who'd done murderous battle on the Kingfisher in relative silence. The pull on the edges of the net slackened as it fell, so at least they had more room to tumble and bounce when they hit the surface of the water — or, more accurately, the strangely yielding barrier of net and sail canvas with the water beneath it like a cushion.

They rolled around in a jumbled, shouting mass for a second or two while the edges of their trap settled down into the waves, and then the warm, dark water was pouring in around them. Locke felt a brief moment of genuine panic — hard not to when the knots binding his hands and feet were very real — but after a few moments the edges of the net-backed sail began to draw upward again, until they were just above the surface of the ocean. The water still trapped with the prisoners was about waist-deep to Locke, and now the sail canvas formed a sort of shielded pool for them to stand and flounder about in.

"Everyone all right?" That was Jean; Locke saw that he'd claimed the edge of the net directly across from him. There were half a dozen shoving, splashing men between them. Locke scowled at the realization that Jean was quite content to stay where he was.

"Fuckin" jolly," muttered Streva, holding himself upright by one arm. The other had been lashed to the front of his chest in a crude sling. Several of the ex-Messengers were nursing broken bones, and nearly all of them had cuts and bruises, but not one had been excused from this ritual by his injuries.

"Your Honour!" Locke glanced up at the sound of Delmastro's voice. The lieutenant was peering down at them from the larboard entry port with a lantern in one hand; their net was resting in the water three or four feet from the Orchid's dark hull. "Your Honour, they're not drowning!"

"What?" Drakasha appeared next to Delmastro with her false wig back on her head, now more wildly askew than ever. "You rude little bastardsl How dare you waste this court's time with this ridiculous refusal to be executed! Clerk, help them drown!"

"Aye, ma'am, immediate drowning assistance. Deck pumps at the ready! Deck pumps away!"

A pair of sailors appeared at the rail with the aperture of a canvas hose held between them. Locke turned away just as the gush of warm salt water started pounding down on them all. Not so bad, he thought, just seconds before something more substantial than water struck the back of his head with a wet, stinging smack.

Bombardment with this new indignity — greased oakum, Locke quickly realized — was general and vigorous. Crewfolk had lined the rail and were flinging it down into the netted prisoners, a veritable rain of rags and rope fragments that had the familiar rancid stink of the stuff he'd spent several mornings painting the masts with. This assault continued for several minutes, until Locke had no idea where the grease ended and his clothes began, and the water in their little enclosure was topped with a sliding layer of foulness.

"Unbelievable," shouted Delmastro. "Your Honour, they're still there!" "Not drowned?"

Zamira appeared at the rail once again and solemnly removed her wig. "Damnation. The sea refuses to claim them. We shall have to bring them back aboard."

After a few moments, the lines above them drew taut and the little prison of net and canvas began to rise from the water. Not a moment too soon, it seemed — Locke shuddered as he felt something large and powerful brush against the barrier beneath his feet. In seconds they were mercifully above the tips of the waves and creaking steadily upward.

But their punishment was not yet over; they hung once more in the darkness when the net was hoisted above the rail and were not brought back in above the deck. "Free the spinning-tackle," shouted Delmastro.

Locke caught sight of a small woman shimmying out onto the tangle of ropes overhead. She pulled a restraining pin from the large wooden tackle by which the net was suspended. Locke recognized the circular metal bearing within the tackle; heavily greased, it would allow even awkward and weighty cargoes to be spun with ease. Cargoes like them.

Crewfolk lined the rail and began to grab at the net and heave it along; in moments the prisoners were spinning at a nauseating rate, and the world around them flew by in glimpses — dark water… lamps on the deck… dark water… lamps on the deck…

"Oh, gods," said someone, a moment before he noisily threw up. There was a sudden scramble away from the poor fellow, and Locke clung grimly to his place at the edge of the net, trying to ignore the kicking, shuddering, spinning mass of men. "Clean "em up," shouted Delmastro. "Deck pumps away!"

The hard stream of salt water gushed into their midst once more, and they spun furiously. Locke intersected the spray every few seconds as each rotation of the net brought him around. His dizziness grew and grew as the minutes passed, and though it was becoming extremely fashionable, he focused every speck of dignity on simply not throwing up.

So intense was his dizziness and so swift was their deliverance that he didn't even realize thed'r been swung back onto the deck until the net he was clinging to collapsed into slackness. He toppled forward onto netting and canvas above good, hard planks once again. The net had ceased spinning but the world took its place, rotating in six or seven directions at once, all of them profoundly unpleasant. Locke closed his eyes, but that didn't help. It merely made him blind as well as nauseous.

Men were crawling over him, moaning and swearing. A pair of crewfolk reached down and heaved Locke to his feet; his stomach nearly surrendered at that point and he coughed sharply to fight back his nausea. Captain Drakasha was approaching, her false wig and cloak discarded, and she was tilted at a funny angle.

"The sea won't have you," she said. "The water refuses to swallow you. It's not yet your time to drown, praise Iono. Praise Ulcris!"

Ulcris was the Jereshtd name for the god of the sea, not often heard in Therin lands or waters. There must be more eastern islanders aboard than I reaIized,tho\ight Locke. "Lord of the Grasping Waters shield us," chanted the crew.

"So you're here with us between all things," said Drakasha. "The land won't have you and the sea won't claim you. You" ve fled, like us, to wood and canvas. This deck's your firmament, these sails your heavens. This is all the world you get. This is all the world you need."

She stepped forward with a drawn dagger. "Will you lick my boots to claim a place on it?"

"NO!" the ex-Messengers roared in unison. Thed'r been coached on this part of the ritual. "Will you kneel and kiss my jewelled ring for mercy?" "NO!" "Will you bend your knees to pretty titles on pieces of paper?" "NO!"

"Will you pine for land and laws and kings, and cling to them like a mother's tit?" "NO!" She stepped up to Locke and handed him the dagger. "Then free yourself, brother."

Still unsteady, and grateful for the aid of the crewfolk beside him, Locke used the blade to saw through the rope that bound his hands, and then bent over to cut the rope between his ankles. That accomplished, he turned and saw that all of the ex-Messengers were more or less upright, most of them held by one or two Orchids. Close at hand he could see several familiar faces — Streva, Jabril, a fellow called Alvaro… and just behind them, Jean, watching him uneasily. Locke hesitated, then pointed to Jabril and held out the blade. "Free yourself, brother."

Jabril smiled, took the blade and was finished with his bonds in a moment. Jean glared at Locke, who closed his eyes, not wanting to make further eye contact, and listened as the dagger made its passage through the group, from hand to hand. "Free yourself, brother," they murmured, one after another. And then it was done.

"Unbound by your own hands, you are outlaw brethren of the Sea of Brass," said Captain Drakasha, "and crewmen of the Poison Orchid.""

2

Even an experienced thief will find occasion to learn new tricks if he lives long enough. That morning and afternoon, Locke had learned how to properly loot a captured ship.

Locke finished his last circuit belowdecks, reasonably certain there were no more Kingfisher crewfolk to round up, and stomped up the companionway to the quarterdeck. The bodies of the Redeemers there had been moved aside and stacked at the taffrail; the bodies of those from the Poison Orchid had been carried down to the waist. Locke could see several of Zamira's crewfolk respectfully covering them with sail canvas.

He quickly surveyed the ship. Thirty or forty Orchids had come aboard and were taking control of the vessel everywhere. They were up the ratlines, with Jean and Delmastro at the wheel, tending the anchors and guarding the thirty or so surviving Kingfisher crewfolk atop the forecastle deck. Under Utgar's supervision, the wounded Kingfishers and Orchids had been carried down to the waist near the starboard entry port, where Captain Drakasha and Scholar Treganne were just coming aboard. Locke hurried toward them.

"It's my arm, Scholar. Hurts something awful." Streva used his good arm to support his injured limb as he winced and held it out for Treganne's inspection. "I think it's broken."

"Of course it's broken, you cretinous turd," she said, brushing past him to kneel beside a Kingfisher whose tunic was completely soaked with blood. "Keep waving it like that and it'll snap right off. Sit down." "But—"

"I work from worst chance to best," Treganne muttered. She knelt on the deck beside the injured Kingfisher, using her cane to brace herself until she was on both knees. Then she gave the cane a twist. The handle separated from the cane's full length, revealing a dagger-sized blade that Treganne used to slice open the sailor's tunic. "I can move you up on my list by kicking your head a couple of times. Still want prompt attention?" "Um… no." "You'll keep. Piss off."

"There you are, Ravelle." Captain Drakasha stepped past Treganne and the injured and grabbed Locke by the shoulder. "You" ve done well for yourself." "Have I?"

"You're as useless as an arse without a hole when it comes to running a ship, but I" ve heard the damnedest things about how you fought just now." "Your sources exaggerate."

"Well, the ship's ours and you gave us her master. Now that we've plucked our flower, we need to sip the nectar before bad weather or another ship comes along." "Will you be taking the Kingfisher as a prize?"

"No. I don't like having more than one prize crew out at a time. We'll shake her down for valuables and useful cargo." "Then burn her or something?"

"Of course not. We'll leave the crew stores enough to make port and watch them scamper for the horizon. You look confused."

"No objections, Captain, it's just… not as downright bastardly as I was expecting."

"You don't think we respect surrenders because we're kindly people, do you, Ravelle?" Drakasha grinned. "I don't have much time to explain, but it's like this. If not for those gods-damned Redeemers, these people—" She waved a hand at the injured Kingfishers waiting for Treganne's attention. "-wouldn't have given or taken a scratch. Four out of five ships we take, I'd say, if they can't rig razor-nets and get bows ready, they just roll right over for it. They know we'll let "em slip off with their lives once we're done. And the common sailors don't own one centira of the cargo, so why should they swallow a blade or a crossbow bolt for it?" "I suppose that does make sense."

"To more people than us. Look at this shambles. Redeemers for security? If those maniacs hadn't been available for free, this ship wouldn't have any real guards. I guarantee it. No sense in it for the owners. These long voyages, four or five months from the far east back to Tal Verrar with spices, rare metals, wood — an owner can lose two ships out of three, and the one that arrives will pay for the two that don't. With profit to spare. And if they get the actual ship back, even sans cargo, so much the better. That's why we don't sink and burn like mad. As long as we show some restraint, and don't get too close to civilization, the folks holding the purse-strings think of us as a natural hazard, like the weather."

"So with the, ah, plucking and sipping the nectar bit, where do we start?"

"Most worthwhile thing at hand is the ship's purse," said Drakasha. "Master keeps it for expenses. Bribes and so forth. Finding it's always a pain in the arse. Some throw it overboard, others hide it somewhere dank and unlikely. We'll probably have to slap this Nera around for a few hours before he spits truth."

"Damnation." Behind them, Treganne let her patient slump to the deck and began wiping her bloody hands on his breeches. "No good on this one, Captain. I can see straight through to his lungs behind the wound." "He's dead for sure?" said Locke.

"Well, heavens, I wouldn't know, I'm just the fucking physiker. But I heard in a bar once that dead is the accepted thing to be when your lungs are open to daylight," said Treganne.

"Uh… yes. I heard the same thing. Look, will anyone else here die without your immediate full attention?" "Not likely."

"Captain Drakasha," said Locke, "Master Nera has something of a soft heart. Might I take the liberty of suggesting a plan…"

A few moments later, Locke returned to the waist, holding Antoro Nera by one arm. The man's hands had been bound behind his back. Locke gave him a good shove toward Zamira, who stood with one sabre unsheathed. Behind her, Treganne worked feverishly over the corpse of the newly deceased sailor. The slashed and bloody tunic had been disposed of and a clean one drawn over the corpse's chest. Only a small red spot now marked the lethal wound, and Treganne gave every impression that the unmoving form was still within her power to save. Drakasha caught Nera and set her blade against his upper chest.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance," she said, sliding the curved edge of her weapon toward Nera's unprotected neck. He whimpered. "Your ship's badly out of trim. Too much weight of gold. We need to find and remove the master's purse as quick as we can." "I, uh, don't know exactly where it is," said Nera.

"Right. And I can teach fish to fart fire," said Drakasha. "You get one more chance, and then I start throwing your injured overboard." "But… please, I was told—" "Whoever told you anything wasn't me." "I… I don't—"

"Scholar," said Drakasha, "can you do anything for the man you're working on?"

"He won't be dancing anytime soon," said Treganne, "but yes, he'll pull through."

Drakasha shifted her grip on Nera and held him by his tunic-collar with her free hand. She took two steps to her right and, barely looking, drove her sabre down into the dead sailor's neck. Treganne flinched backward and gave the corpse's legs a little push to make it look as though thed'r kicked. Nera gasped. "Medicine is such an uncertain business," said Drakasha.

"In my cabin," said Nera. "A hidden compartment by the compass above my bed. Please… please don't kill any more of—"

"I didn't, actually," said Drakasha. She withdrew her sabre from the corpse's throat, wiped it on Nera's breeches and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. "Your man died a few minutes ago. My leech says she can save the rest of your injured without trouble."

She spun Nera around, slashed the rope that bound his hands and shoved him toward Locke with a grin. "Return him to his people, Ravelle, and then kindly relieve his secret compartment of its burden." "Your will, Captain."

After that, they began taking the Kingfisher apart more eagerly than newlyweds tearing off layers of formal clothing in their first moment of privacy. Locke felt his fatigue vanishing as he became absorbed in what was essentially one vast robbery, for more physical material than he'd ever stolen before in his life. He was passed from duty to duty among Orchids who laughed and clowned with real spirit, but worked with haste and precision for all that.

First they snatched up anything portable and reasonably valuable — bottles of wine, Master Nera's formal wardrobe, bags of coffee and tea from the galley and several crossbows from the Kingfisher's tiny armoury. Drakasha herself appraised the ship's collection of navigation instruments and hourglasses, leaving Nera the bare minimum required to safely work his vessel back to port.

Next, Utgar and the boatswain scoured the flute from stem to stern, using the surviving scrub watch as mules to haul off stores and equipment of nautical use: alchemical caulk, good sail canvas, carpenter's tools, barrels of pitch and loop after loop of new rope.

"Good shit, hey," said Utgar, as he weighed Locke down with about fifty pounds of rope and a box of metal files. "Much too expensive in Port Prodigal. Always best to get it at what we call the broadside discount."

Last but not least came the Kingfisher's cargo. All the main-deck hatch gratings were raised and a nearly incomprehensible network of ropes and pulleys was rigged on and between the two ships. By noon, crates and casks and oilcloth-wrapped bundles were being lighted along to the Poison Orchid. It was everything Nera had promised and more — turpentine, oiled witchwood, silks, crates of fine yellow wine padded with sheepskins and barrel after barrel of bulk spices. The smell of cloves, nutmeg and ginger filled the air; after an hour or two of work at the hoists, Locke was brown with a sludge that was half sweat and half powdered cinnamon.

At the fifth hour of the afternoon Drakasha called a halt to the forcible transfusion of wealth. The Poison Orchid rode lower in the gleaming water and the lightened flute rolled freely, hollowed out like an insect husk about to fall from a spider's jaws. Drakasha's crew hadn't stripped her clean, of course. They left the Kingfishers their casks of water, salted meat, cheap ale and pink-piss ration wine. They even left a few crates and parcels of valuables that were too deeply or inconveniently stowed for Drakasha's taste. Nonetheless, the sack was thorough. Any landbound merchant would have been well pleased to have a ship unloaded at the dock with such haste.

A brief ceremony was held at the taffrail of the Kingfisher; Zamira blessed the dead of the two vessels in her capacity as a lay priestess of Iono. Then the corpses went over the side, sewn into old canvas with Redeemer weapons weighing them down. The Redeemers themselves were then thrown overboard without a word.

"Ain't disrespectful," said Utgar when Locke whispered to him about this. "Far as they believe, they get consecrated and blessed and all that fine stuff by their own gods the moment they die. No hard feelings if you just tip the heathens over the side afterward. Helpful thing to know if you ever have to kill a bunch of "em again, hey?"

At last, the day's long business was truly concluded; Master Nera and his crew were released to tend to their own fortunes once again. While Drakasha's archers kept watch from their perches on the yard-arms, the network of lines and fend-offs between the two ships was pulled apart. The Poison Orchid hauled up her boats and loosed her sails. In minutes, she was making seven or eight knots to the southwest, leaving the Kingfisher adrift in disarray behind her.

Locke had seen little of Jean all day, and both of them had appeared to work studiously to preserve their separation. Just as Locke had thrown himself into manual labour, Jean had remained with Delmastro on the quarterdeck. They didn't come close enough to speak again until the sun fell beneath the horizon, and the scrub watch was herded together and bound for their initiation.

3

All the new initiates and half the ship's old company were on the Merry Watch, fuelled by rack after rack of the fine eastern wines thed'r plucked from the Kingfisher. Locke recognized some of the labels and vintages. Stuff that wouldn't sell in Camorr for less than twenty Crowns a bottle was being sucked down like beer, or poured into the hair of celebrating men and women, or simply spilled on deck. The Orchids, men and women alike, were mixing eagerly with the ex-Messengers now. Dice games and wrestling matches and song-circles had erupted spontaneously. Propositions spoken and unspoken were everywhere. Jabril had vanished belowdecks with a crew-woman at least an hour before.

Locke took it all in from the shadows of the starboard side, just below the raised quarterdeck. The starboard stairs weren't flush with the rail; there was space enough for a lean person to wedge comfortably between the two. "Ravelle" had been greeted warmly and eagerly enough when he'd circulated on deck, but now that he'd found a cosy exile nobody seemed to be missing him. In his hands was a large leather jack full of blue wine that was worth its weight in silver, as yet untouched.

Across the great mass of laughing, drinking sailors, Locke could make out Jean at the ship's opposite rail. While Locke watched, the shape of a woman, much shorter, approached him from behind and reached out toward him. Locke turned away.

The water slipped past, a black gel topped with curls of faintly phosphorescent foam. The Orchid was setting a good pace through the night. Laden, she yielded less than before to the chop of the sea and was parting these little waves as if they were air.

"When I was a lieutenant apprentice," said Captain Drakasha, "on my first voyage with an officer's sword, I lied to my captain about stealing a bottle of wine."

She spoke softly. Startled, Locke looked around and saw that she was standing directly over him, at the forward quarterdeck rail.

"Not just me," she continued. "All eight of us in the apprentices" berth. We "borrowed" it from the captain's private stores and should have been smart enough to pitch the bottle over the side when we" d finished." "In the… navy of Syrune, this was?"

"Her Resplendent Majesty's Sea Forces of Syrune Eternal." Drak-asha's smile was a crescent of white against darkness, faint as the foam topping the waves. "The captain could have had us whipped, or reduced in rank, or even chained up for formal trial on land. Instead she had us strike down the royal yard from the mainmast. We had a spare, of course. But she made us scrape the varnish off the one we" d taken down… this is a spar of oak, you know, ten feet long and thick as a leg. The captain took our swords and said thed'r be restored if and only if we ate the royal yard. Tip to tip, every last splinter." "Ate it?"

"A foot and a quarter of sturdy oak for each of us," said Drakasha. "How we did it was our business. It took a month. We tried everything. Shaving it, scraping it, boiling it, pulping it. We had a hundred tricks to make it palatable and we forced it down, a few spoonfuls or chips a day. Most of us got sick, but we ate die yard." "Gods."

"When it was over, the captain said she'd wanted us to understand that lies between shipmates tear the ship apart, bit by bit, gnawing at it just as we" d gnawed the royal yard down to nothing."

"Ah." Locke sighed and at last took a sip of his warm, excellent wine. "I take it this means I'm due for a bit more dissection, then?" "Come join me at the taffrail." Locke rose, knowing it wasn't a request.

4

"I never knew that dispensing justice could be so tiring," said Ezri, appearing at Jean's right elbow as he stood staring out over the Orchid's larboard rail. One of the moons was just starting to rise in the south, half a silver-white coin peeking above the night horizon, as though lazily considering whether it was worth rising at all. "You" ve had a long day, Lieutenant."Jean smiled.

"Jerome," she said, reaching out to set a hand upon his right forearm, "if you call me "lieutenant" again tonight, I'll kill you."

"As you wish, Lieu… La… something-other-than—" "heutenant" "-that-starts-with—"lieu", honest… Besides, you already tried to execute me once this evening. Look how that turned out."

"Best way possible," she said, now leaning against the rail beside him. She wasn't wearing her armour, just a thin tunic and a pair of calf-length breeches without hose or shoes. Her hair was free, waves of dark curls rustling in the breeze. Jean realized that she was putting most of her weight against the rail and trying hard not to show it. "Uh, you got a little too close to a few blades today," he said.

"I" ve been closer. But you, now… you're… you're a very good fighter, do you know that?" "It's been s—"

"Gods, how wretched was that? Of course you're a good fighter. I meant to say something much wittier, honest."

"Then consider it said." Jean scratched his beard and felt a warm, welcome sort of nervousness fluttering in his stomach. "We can both pretend. All of the, um, effortlessly witty nonsense I" ve been practising on the barrels in the hold for days has taken flight, too." "Practising, hmmm?"

"Yeah, well… that Jabril, he's a sophisticated fellow, isn't he? Need a bit of conversation to catch his attention, won't I?" "What?" "Didn't you know I only fancied men? Tall men?" "Oooh, I kicked you to the deck once, Valora, and I'm about to—" "Ha! In your condition?" "My condition is the only thing saving your life at the moment." "You wouldn't dare heap abuse on me in front of half the crew—" "Of course I would." "Well, yes. True."

"Look at this lovely, noisy mess. I don't think anyone would even notice if I set you on fire. Hell, down in the main-deck hold there's couples going at it packed tighter than spears in the arms lockers. You want real peace and quiet any time tonight, closest place you might find it is two or three hundred yards off one of the bows." "No thanks. I don't know how to say "stop eating me" in shark."

"Well then, you're stuck here with us. And we've been waiting for you lot to get off the scrub watch for long enough." She grinned up at him. "Tonight everyone gets to know everyone else."

Jean stared at her, eyes wide, not knowing what to say or do next. Her grin became a frown. "Jerome, am I… doing something wrong?" "Wrong?"

"You keep sort of moving away. Not just with your body, but with your neck. You keep—"

"Oh, hell."Jean laughed, reached out to put a hand on her shoulder and felt himself burst into an uncontrollable twit-grin when she reached up to hold it there. "Ezri, I lost my optics when you… made us swim, the day we came aboard. I'm what they call near-blind. I suppose I didn't realize it, but I" ve been fidgeting to keep you in focus." "Oh, gods," she whispered. "I'm sorry." "Don't be. Keeping you in focus is worth the trouble." T didn't mean—"

T know." Jean felt the anxious pressure in his stomach migrating upward to fill his chest, and he took a deep breath. "Look, we almost got killed today. Fuck these games. Do you want to have a drink with me?"

5

"Watch," said Drakasha.

Locke stood at the taffrail, looking down into the ship's phosphorescent wake between the glow of two stern lanterns. Those lanterns were gleaming glass orchids the size of his head, transparent petals drooping delicately toward the water. "Gods," said Locke, shuddering.

Between the wake and the lanterns, there was just enough light for him to spot it — a long, black shadow sliding beneath the Poison Orchid's trail of disturbed water. Forty or fifty feet of something sinuous and sinister, using the ship's wake to conceal itself. Captain Drakasha had one boot up on the taffrail and an expression of casual pleasure on her face. "What the hell is it?" i

"Five or six possibilities," said Drakasha. "Might be a whaleworm or a giant devilfish." "Is it following us?" "Yes." "Is it… um, dangerous?" "Well, if you drop your drink over the rail, don't jump in after it." "Don't you think you should maybe let it have a few arrows?" "I might, if only I was sure that this is the fastest it can swim." "Good point."

"Fling arrows at all the strange things you see out here, Ravelle, and all you do is run out of arrows." She sighed and glanced around to ensure that they were more or less alone. The closest crewman was at the wheel, eight or nine yards forward. "You made yourself very useful today" "Well, the alternative just didn't suit."

"I thought I was abetting a suicide when I agreed to let you lead the boats."

"You nearly were, Captain. It was… look, it was inches from disaster the whole way, that fight. I don't even remember half of it. The gods blessed me by allowing me to avoid soiling my breeches. Surely you know what it's like."

"I do. I also know that sometimes these things aren't accidents. You and Master Valora have… excited a great deal of comment for what you did in that battle. Your skills are unusual for a former master of weights and measures."

"Weighing and measuring is a boring occupation," said Locke. "A man needs a hobby." "The Archon's people didn't hire you by accident, did they?" "What?"

"I said I'd peel this strange fruit you call a story, Ravelle, and I have been. My initial impression of you wasn't favourable. But you" ve… done better. And I think I can understand how you kept your old crew in thrall despite your ignorance. You seem to have a real talent for improvised dishonesty." "Weighing and measuring is a very, very boring—"

"So you're a master of a sedentary occupation who just happened to have a talent for espionage? And disguise? And command? Not to mention your skill at arms, or that of your close and unusually educated friend Jerome?" "Our mothers were so very proud of us."

"You weren't hired away from the Priori by the Archon," said Drakasha. "You were double agents. Planted provocateurs, intended to enter the Archon's service. You didn't steal that ship because of some insult you won't speak of; you stole it because your orders were to damage the Archon's credibility. To do something big." "Uh—"

"Please, Ravelle. As if there could be any other reasonable explanation."

Gods, what a temptation, Locke though. A mark actually inviting me to step into her own misconception, free and clear. He stared at the phosphorescent wake, at the mysterious something swimming beneath it. What to do? Take the opening, cement the Ravelle and Valora identities in Drakasha's mind, work from there? Or… his cheeks burned as the sting of Jean's rebuke rose again in his memory. Jean hadn't just criticized him on theological grounds, or because of Delmastro. It was a matter of approaches. Which would be more effective? Treat this woman as a mark, or treat her as an ally?

Time was running out. This conversation was the point of decision: follow his instincts and play her, or follow Jean's advice and… attempt to trust her. He thought furiously. His own instincts — were they always impeccable? Jean's instincts — arguments aside, had Jean ever done anything but try to protect him? "Tell me something," he said very slowly, "while I weigh a response." "Perhaps."

"Something half the size of this ship is probably staring at us as we speak." "Yes." "How do you stand it?" "You see things like this often enough, you get used—"

"Not just that. Everything. I" ve been at sea a grand total of six or seven weeks in my life. How long have you been out here?" She stared at him, saying nothing,

"Some things about myself," said Locke, "I won't tell you just because you're the captain of this ship, even if you throw me back in the hold or pitch me over the side. Some things… I want to know who I'm talking to first. I want to talk to Zamira, not to Captain Drakasha." Still she remained silent. "Is that asking so very much?"

"I'm nine and thirty," she said at last, very quietly. "I first sailed when I was eleven."

"Nearly thirty years, then. Well, like I said, I" ve been out here a few weeks. And in that time — storms, mutiny, seasickness, battles, flit-wraiths… hungry damn things lurking all over the place, waiting for someone to dip a toe in the water. It's not that I haven't enjoyed myself at times; I have. I" ve learned things. But… thirty years? And children as well? Don't you find it all… chancy?" "Do you have children, Orrin?" "No."

"The instant I decide that you are presuming to lecture me on their behalf, this conversation will end with you going over this rail to make the acquaintance of whatever's down there." "That's not at all what I meant. It's just—"

"Have people on land acquired the secret of living for ever? Have they abolished accidents? Have they ceased to have weather in my absence?" "Of course not."

"How much more danger are my children truly in than some poor bastard conscripted to fight in his duke's wars? Or some penniless family dying of a plague with their neighbourhood quarantined, or burned to the ground? Wars, disease, taxes. Bowing heads and kissing boots. There's plenty of hungry damn things prowling on land, Orrin. It's just that the ones at sea tend not to wear crowns." "Ah-" "Wasyour life a paradise before you sailed the Sea of Brass?" "No."

"Of course not. Listen well. I thought that I'd grown up in a hierarchy where mere competence and loyalty were enough to maintain one's station in life," she whispered. "I gave an oath of service and imagined that oath was binding in both directions. I was a fool. And I had to kill an awful lot of men and women to escape the consequences of that foolishness. Would you really ask me to place my trust, and my hopes for Paolo and Cosetta, in the same bullshit that nearly killed me before? Which system of laws should I bend to, Orrin? Which king or duke or empress should I trust like a mother? Which of them is a better judge of my life's worth than I am? Can you point them out to me, write a letter of introduction?" "Zamira," said Locke, "please don't make me out to be some sort of advocate for things that I'm not; it seems to me that my whole life has been spent in the wilful disdain of what you're talking about. Do I strike you as a law-and-order sort of fellow?" "Admittedly not."

"I'm just curious, is all. I do appreciate this. Tell me now — what about the Free Armada? Your so-called War for Recognition? Why profess such hatred for… laws and taxes and all those strictures, if that was essentially what you were fighting to emplace down here?"

"Ah." Zamira sighed, removed her four-cornered hat and ran her fingers through her breeze-tossed hair. "Our infamous Lost Cause. Our personal contribution to the glorious history of Tal Verrar." "Why did you start it?"

"Bad judgment. We all hoped… well, Captain Bonaire was persuasive. We had a leader, a plan. Open mines on new islands, tap some of the safe forests for wood and resin. Pillage as we liked until the other powers on the Sea of Brass came wringing their hands to the bargaining table and then beat the shit out of them with authorized trade. We imagined a realm without tariffs. Montierre and Port Prodigal swelling with merchants and their imported fortunes." "Ambitious."

"Idiotic. I was newly escaped from one sour allegiance and I leapt right into another. We believed Bonaire when she said that Stragos didn't have the clout to come down and mount a serious fight." "Oh. Hell."

"They met us at sea. Biggest action I ever saw, and the soonest lost. Stragos put hundreds of Verrari soldiers on his ships to back the sailors; we never stood a chance in close action. Once they had the Basilisk they stopped taking prisoners. Thed'r board a ship, scuttle it and move on to the next. Their archers put shafts into anyone in the water, at least until the devilfish came.

"I needed every trick I had just to get the Orchid out. A few of us straggled back to Prodigal, beat to hell, and even before we got there the Verrari pounded Montierre into the sand. Five hundred dead in one morning. After that, they sailed back home and I imagine there was a lot of dancing, fucking and speeches."

"I think," said Locke, "you can take a city like Tal Verrar… and you can threaten its purse-strings or its pride, and get away with it. But not if you threaten both at once." "You're right. Maybe Stragos was impotent when Bonaire left the city; whatever he was, we united Tal Verrar's interests behind him. We summoned him up like some demon out of a story." She folded her arms over her hat and leaned forward, resting her elbows against the taffrail. "So we stayed outlaws. No flowering for the Ghostwinds. No glorious destiny for Port Prodigal. This ship is our world now, and I only take her in when her belly's too full to prowl.

"Am I making myself clear, Orrin? I don't regret how I" ve lived these past few years. I move where I will. I set no appointments. I guard no borders. What landbound king has the freedom of a ship's captain? The Sea of Brass provides. When I need haste, it gives me winds. When I need gold, it gives me galleons." Thieves prosper, thought Locke. The rich remember. He made his decision, and gripped the rail to avoid shaking.

"Only gods-damned fools die for lines drawn on maps," said Zamira. "But nobody can draw lines around my ship. If they try, all I need to do to slip away is set more sail."

"Yeah," said Locke. "But… Zamira, what if I were forced to tell you that that may no longer be the case?"

6

"Have you really been practising on barrels, Jerome?"

Thed'r laid claim to a bottle of Black Pomegranate brandy from one of the crates broken open amidst the revellers and taken it back to their spot by the rail.

"Barrels. Yes."Jean took a sip of the stuff, dark as distilled night, with a sting like nettles beneath the sweetness. He passed the bottle back to her. "They never laugh, they never ridicule you and they offer no distractions." "Distractions?" "Barrels don't have breasts." "Ah. So what have you been telling these barrels?"

"This bottle of brandy," said Jean, "is still too full for me to begin embarrassing myself like that." "Pretend I'm a barrel, then." "Barrels don't have br—" "So I" ve heard. Find the nerve, Valora."

"You want me to pretend that you're a barrel so I can tell you what I was telling barrels back when I was pretending they were you." "Precisely."

"Well." He took another long sip from the brandy bottle. "You have… you have such hoops as I have never seen in any cask on any ship, such shiny and well-fit hoops—" "Jerome—"

"And your staves!" He decided it was a good time to take another drink. "Your staves…so well planed, so tightly fit. You are as fine a cask as I have ever seen, you marvellous little barrel. To say nothing of your bung—" "Ahem. So you won't share your sweet nothings?" "No. I am utterly emboldened in my cowardice."

" "Man! What a mouse he is made by conversation," " Ezri recited. " "Scorns gods, dares battle, and flinches from a maid's rebuke! Merest laugh from merest girl is like a dagger felt, and like a dagger, makes a lodging of his breast. Turns blood to milkwater and courage to faint memory.""

"Ohhhhh, Lucarno, is it?" Jean tugged at his beard thoughtfully. " "Woman, your heart is a mapless maze. Could I bottle confusion and drink it a thousand years, I could not confound myself so much as you do between waking and breakfast. You are grown so devious that serpents would applaud your passage, would the gods but give them hands." " "I like that one," she said. "The Empire of Seven Days, right?" "Right. Ezri, forgive my asking, but how the hell do you—"

"It's no more odd than the fact that you know any of this." She took the bottle from him, tipped it back for a long draught and then raised her free hand. T know. I'll give you a hint. "I have held the world from meridian to meridian in my hands and at my whim. I have received the confessions of emperors, the wisdom of magi, the lamentations of generals." " "You had a library? You have a library?"

"Had," she said. T was the sixth of six daughters. I imagine the novelty wore off. Mother and father could afford live companions for the older five. I made do with all the dead playmates in mother's books." With her next drink she drained the last of the bottle, and with a grin she tossed it overboard. "So what's your excuse?"

"My education was, ah, eclectic. Did you ever… when you were little, do you remember a toy of wooden pegs, in various shapes, that would fit into matching holes on a wooden frame? "Yes," she said. "I got my sisters" when they tired of it."

"You might say that I was trained to be a professional square peg in a round hole." "Really? Is there a guild for that?" "We've been working on getting a charter for years." "Did you have a library as well?"

"After a fashion. Sometimes we" d… borrow someone else's without their knowledge or cooperation. Long story. But there's one other reason. I'll give you a verse of your own to guess — "After dark," " he recited with a flourish, " "an ass with an audience of one is called a husband; an ass with an audience of two hundred is called a success." " "You were… on stage," she said. "You were a player! Professionally?"

"Temporarily," said Jean. "Very temporarily. I was… well… we…" He glanced aft and instantly regretted it.

"Ravelle," Ezri said, then looked at Jean curiously. "You and he were… you two are having some sort of disagreement, aren't you?"

"Can we not talk about him?" Jean, feeling bold and nervous at once, put a hand on her arm. "Just for tonight, can he not exist?"

"We can indeed not talk about him," she said, shifting herself so that her weight rested against his chest rather than the rail. "Tonight," she said, "nobody else exists."

Jean stared down at her, suddenly acutely aware of the beat of his own heart. The rising moonlight in her eyes, the feel of her warmth against him, the smell of brandy and sweat and salt water that was uniquely hers… suddenly the only thing he was capable of saying was, "Uhhhhhh…"

"Jerome Valora," she said, "you magnificent idiot, must I draw you a diagram?" "Of—"

"Take me to my cabin." She curled the fabric of his tunic in one fist. "I have the privilege of walls and I intend to use it. At length."

"Ezri,"Jean whispered, "never in a hundred, never in a thousand years would I say no, but you were cut half to ribbons today, and you can barely stand—"

"I know," she said. "That's the only reason I'm confident I'm not going to break you." "Oh, for that I'm going to—"

"I certainly hope you will." She threw her arms wide. "First get me there."

He picked her up with ease; she settled into his arms and wrapped hers around his neck. As Jean swung away from the rail and headed for the quarterdeck stairs, he found himself facing an arc of thirty or forty Merry Watch revellers. They raised their arms and began cheering wildly.

"Put your names on a list," hollered Ezri, "so I can kill you all in the morning!" She smiled and turned her eyes back to Jean. "Or maybe it'll have to wait for the afternoon."

7

"Just listen," said Locke. "Listen, please, with as open a mind as you can manage." Til do my best."

"Your, ah, deduction about Jerome and myself is commendable. It does make sense, but for the parts that I" ve concealed until now. Starting with myself. I'm not a trained fighter. I'm a bloody miserable fighter. I have tried to be otherwise, but the gods know, it's always comedy or tragedy before I can blink." "That—"

"Zamira. Heed this. I didn't kill four men with anything resembling skill. I dropped a beer-cask on a man too dumb to look up. I slit the throats of two more who were knocked aside by the cask. I did the fourth when he slipped in beer. When everyone else found the bodies, I let them make their own assumptions."

"But I know for a fact that you charged those Redeemers all by yourself—"

"Yes. People who are about to die frequently go out of their minds. I should have died ten seconds into that fight, Zamira. It was Jerome who made it otherwise. Jerome and only Jerome."

At that moment, a loud cheer abruptly rose above the noise of the near-carnival at the ship's waist. Locke and Zamira both turned in time to see Jean appear at the top of the quarterdeck stairs with Lieutenant Delmastro in his arms. Neither of them so much as glanced aft at Locke and the captain; a few seconds later they were vanishing down the companionway.

"Well," said Zamira, "to win that heart, even for a night, your friend Jerome must be even more extraordinary than I thought." "He is extraordinary," Locke whispered. "He continues to save my life, time and time again, even when I don't deserve it." He returned his gaze to the Orchid's roiling, glowing, monster-haunted wake. "Which is always, more or less."

Zamira said nothing, and after a few moments Locke continued, "Well, after he did it again this morning, I slipped and fumbled and ran like hell until the fight was over. That's all. Panic and dumb luck."

"You still led the boats. You still went up first, not knowing what was waiting for you."

"All bullshit. I'm a bullshit artist, Zamira. A false-facer. An actor, an impersonator. I didn't have any noble motives when I made that request. My life just wasn't worth much if I didn't do something utterly cra2y to win back some respect. I faked every second of composure anyone glimpsed this morning."

"The fact that you consider that extraordinary only tells me that it really was your first actual battle." "But—"

"Ravelle, anyone in command feigns ease when death is near. We do it for those around us, and we do it for ourselves. We do it because the sole alternative is to die cringing. The difference between an experienced leader and an untested one is that only the untested one is shocked at how well they can pretend when their hand is forced."

"I don't believe this," said Locke. "When I first came aboard, I couldn't impress you enough to make you spit in my face. Now you're making my excuses for me. Zamira, Jerome and I never worked for the Priori. I" ve never even met a Priori except in passing. The fact is that we're still working for Maxilan Stragos as we speak." "What?"

"Jerome and I are thieves. Professional, independent thieves. We came to Tal Verrar on a very delicate job of our own design. The Archon's… intelligence services figured out who and what we are. Stragos poisoned us, a latent poison for which only he can supply the antidote. Until we get it or secure some other remedy, we're his puppets." "To what possible end?"

"Stragos handed us the Red Messenger, allowed us to take a crew from the Windward Rock and built up a parchment trail concerning an imaginary disgruntled officer named Orrin Ravelle. He gave us our sailing master — the one whose heart seized on us just before we hit the storm — and sent us out here on his business. That's how we got the ship. That's how we tweaked Stragos's nose in such an unlikely fashion. All was to his design." "What's he after? Someone in Port Prodigal?"

"He wants the same thing you gave him last time you crossed paths. He's all but at war with the Priori, and he's feeling his years. If he's going to seize anything resembling popularity ever again, the time is now. He needs an enemy outside the city to bring his army and navy back into favour. That's you, Zamira. Nothing would be more convenient for Stragos than a wider outbreak of piracy near his city in the next few months."

"Which is exactly why the Brass Sea captains have avoided going anywhere near Tal Verrar for the last seven years! We learned our lesson the bitter way. If he comes looking for a brawl, we'll duck and run before we'll grant him one."

"I know. And so does he. Our job — our mandate — is to find some way to stir up trouble down here regardless. To get you to fly the red flag close enough for common Verrari to see it from the public outhouses." "How the hell did you ever plan on accomplishing this?"

"I had some half-arsed idea to spread rumours, offer bribes. If you hadn't hit the Messenger, I would have tried to kindle a mess myself. But that was before we had any hint as to the real state of things out here. Now Jerome and I obviously need your help." "To do what?"

"To buy time. To convince Stragos that we're succeeding on his behalf."

"If you think for one second that I'll do anything to aid the Archon—"

"I don't," said Locke, "and if you think for one second that I truly mean to aid him, you haven't been listening. Stragos's antidote is supposedly good for two months. That means Jerome and I must be in Tal Verrar in five weeks to get another sip. And if we have no progress to claim, he may simply decide to fold his investment in us."

"If you have to leave us to return to Tal Verrar," she said, "that's unfortunate. But you can find an independent trader in Port Prodigal; they're never more than a few days apart. We have arrangements with a number of them that call in at Tal Verrar and Vel Virazzo. You'll have enough money from your shares to buy passage."

"Zamira, you have more wit than this. Listen. I have spoken personally to Stragos several times. Been lectured, is more the word. And I believe him. I believe that this is his last chance to put his foot down on the Priori and truly rule Tal Verrar. He needs an enemy, Zamira. He needs an enemy that he knows he can crush."

"Then it would be madness to acquiesce to his plan by provoking him."

"Zamira, this fight is coming to you regardless of your intentions. You are all he has. You are the only foe that suits. He's already sacrificed a ship, a veteran sailing master, a galley crew's worth of prisoners and a considerable amount of his own prestige just to put Jerome and me in play. As long as we're out here, as long as you're helping us, then you'll know where his plans rest, because we'll be running them from your ship. If you ignore us, I have no idea what he'll try next. All I know is that he will have other designs, and you won't be privy to them."

"What good will it do me," said Zamira, "to play along with you, and rouse Tal Verrar to the point that Stragos achieves his desire? We couldn't best his fleet seven years ago, with twice our present numbers."

"You're not the weapon," said Locke. "Jerome and I are the weapons. We have access to Stragos. All we need is an answer to the poison and we'll turn on the son of a bitch like a scorpion in his breechclout."

"For this I dangle my ship, my crew and my children in easy reach of an enemy far beyond my strength?"

"Zamira, you spoke of the Sea of Brass as though it is a fairy kingdom, infinitely mutable, but you are lashed tight to Port Prodigal and you must know it. I don't doubt that you could sail for any port in the world and fetch it safely, but could you live anywhere else as you do here? Sell your goods and captured ships as easily? Pay your crew so regularly? Know the waters and your fellow outlaws so well? Lurk in trade lanes half as far from the navy of any great power?"

"This is the strangest conversation I have had in years," said Zamira, returning her hat to her head. "And probably the strangest request anyone has ever made of me. I have no way of knowing if anything you say is true. But I know this ship, and how fast she can run, if all else fails. Even if Port Prodigal fails."

"That is, of course, one option. Ignore me. Wait until Stragos finds some other way to have his war, or a likeness of a war. And then fly. To some other sea, some harder life. You said yourself you can't beat the Archon's navy; you can't strike at Stragos by force of arms. So consider this — every other choice you have will sooner or later turn into withdrawal and retreat. Jerome and I represent the sole means of attack that you will ever possess. With your help, we could destroy the Archonate for ever." "How?" "That's… sort of a work in progress." "Possibly the least reassuring thing you" ve—"

"If nothing else," interrupted Locke, "we know that there are powerful forces in Tal Verrar balanced against the Archon. Jerome and I could contact them, involve them somehow. If the Archonate were abolished, the Priori would hold Tal Verrar by the purse-strings. The last thing thed'r want is embroilment in a useless war that might create another popular military hero."

"Standing here at the stern of my ship, weeks away from Tal Verrar, how can you speak with any certainty of what can be done with that city's merchants and politicians?"

"You said yourself that I had a talent for dishonesty. I often think it the only skill I have worthy of recommendation." "But-" "Drakasha, this is intolerable!"

Locke and Zamira whirled, once again in unison, to find Scholar Treganne standing at the head of the companionway. She stepped toward them, limping without the support of her cane, and in her out-thrust arms wriggled a chitinous black nightmare, multi-legged and gleaming in the lantern light. A spider the size of a cat. She held it belly outward, and its gleaming fangs twitched indignantly. "Dear gods, it certainly is," said Locke. "Treganne, what the hell is Zekassis doing out of her cage?"

"Your lieutenant has commenced an assault on the partition between our quarters," hissed Treganne. "Intolerable noise and commotion! She was lucky to shatter only one cage with all of her knocking about, and luckier still that I was there to restrain this blameless lady—"

"So… wait, you keep that thing in your quarters?" Locke was relieved to discover that it hadn't been prowling the ship, but only marginally so.

"Where do you think woundsilk comes from, Ravelle? Stop flinching; Zekassis is a delicate and timid creature."

"Treganne," said Drakasha, "as a physiker, you must be familiar with the courtship habits of the adult human female." "Yes, but six feet from my head is an insufferable intrusion—"

"Treganne, in my opinion, interrupting Ezri at the moment would be an insufferable intrusion. The quartermaster's compartment across the passage is open. Fetch the carpenter to give Zek temporary accommodations, and pitch your hammock in Gwillem's space." "I shall remember this indignity, Drakasha—"

"Yes, for approximately ten minutes, until some new vexation arises to claim your full attention."

"Should Delmastro do herself some injury through her exertions," said Treganne primly, "she may find another physiker to serve her needs. And I daresay that she may use her own abdomen to spin silk for her bandages—"

"I'm sure Ezri's abdomen is otherwise occupied, Scholar. Please find someone to build that thing a home for the night. You won't need to say much to convince them of your urgency."

As Treganne stomped off in a huff with her delicate and timid creature waving its legs in protest, Locke turned back to Zamira with one eyebrow raised. "Where did you ever—"

"The punishment for insolence to the Nicoran royal family is to be hung out to starve in an iron cage. We were in Nicora doing a bit of smuggling; Treganne was hanging there doing a bit of dying. Most of the time I don't regret cutting her down." "Well. What do you say to my—" "Mad proposal?"

"Zamira, I don't need you to sail into Tal Verrar harbour. Just give me something to buy another few months of Stragos's indulgence. Sack a ship or two near Tal Verrar. Quick and easy work. You know Jerome and I will be the first over the side for you. Just… let them run for the city and spread a bit of panic. Then send us in one night by boat, let us do our business and we'll be back with a better idea of how to turn the situation—"

"Attack ships flying the Verrari flag, then get close enough to the city to let you slip in by boat? Wait at anchor with a five-thousand-solari bounty on my head—"

"Now that is an injustice, Zamira, whatever else I" ve done to merit suspicion. If Jerome and I merely wanted to slip back to Tal Verrar, why would we have risked our necks in your attack this morning? And if I wanted to continue deceiving you or spying on you, why didn't I just play along with your conclusion that we were agents of the Priori}

"Jerome and I quarrelled this morning. If you spoke to Jabril before you pulled me out of your hold, you must know that I'm a divine of the Thirteenth, the Crooked Warden. You're… our people, more or less. Our kind. It's a matter of propriety. Jerome insisted that we tell you the truth, that we need you as willing allies and not as dupes. I'm ashamed to say that I was too angry to agree. But he was right, and it's not just fucking sentiment, it's hard truth. I don't think Jerome and I can pull this off unless you aid us with full knowledge of what we're up to. And if you can't or won't do that, I think you" ve got a hell of a mess coming your way. Soon."

Drakasha settled her right hand on the pommel of one of her sabres and closed her eyes, looking tired and vexed.

"Before anything else," she said at last, "apart from all other considerations, we need to put in at Port Prodigal. I have cargo to sell, stores to buy, a prize to dispose of and crew to meet up with. We're several days out, and will be several days there. I will think on what you" ve said. One way or another, I'll give you an answer after we've done our business there." "Thank you." "So it's really Leocanto, then?" "Just keep calling me Ravelle," said Locke. "Easier for everyone."

"Of course. Well, you're on the Merry Watch and you won't be shifted back to duty watches until tomorrow afternoon. I suggest you make good use of the night."

"Well." Locke-glanced down at his leather cup of blue wine, suddenly thinking that maybe he could do with a few more, and perhaps a dice game to lose himself in for a few hours. "If the gods are kind I already have. Good night, Captain Drakasha."

He left her alone at the taffrail, silently studying the monster that lurked in the Orchid's wake.

8

"Did that hurt?" whispered Ezri, tracing a finger across the sweat-slick skin above Jean's ribs. "Did it hurt? Gods above, woman, no, that was—"

"I don't mean that." She gave him a firm poke in the scar that arced across his abdomen beneath his right breast. "That." "Oh, that. No, it was wonderful. Someone came after me with a pair of Thieves" Teeth. Felt like a warm breeze on a fine spring day. I loved every second of— oof!" "Ass!"

"Where did you get such sharp elbows? You grind those things against a whetstone, or— oof!"

Ezri lay on top of Jean on the demi-silk hammock that took up most of the space in her compartment. It was just barely long enough for him to lie with one arm above his head (brushing the interior bulkhead of the ship's starboard side), and he could have spanned its width between his outstretched arms. An alchemical trinket the size of a coin provided a faint silver light. Ezri's witchwood-dark curls were touched with fey highlights; scattered strands gleamed like threads of spider-silk in moonlight. He ran his hands through that damp forest of hair, massaged her warm scalp with his fingernails, and she let her muscles go slack with a gratifying moan of relaxation.

The motionless air in the compartment was thick with sweat and the trapped heat of their first endless, frantic hour together. The place was also, Jean noticed for the first time, utterly wrecked. Their clothes were scattered in purest chaos. Ezri's weapons and few possessions littered the deck like navigational hazards. A small net containing a few books and scrolls hung from a ceiling beam and tilted toward the compartment door, indicating that the whole ship was heeled over to larboard.

"Ezri," he muttered, staring at the stiffened canvas partition that formed their left-hand "wall". A pair of large feet and a pair of small feet had given it a serious denting. "Ezri, whose cabin did we nearly kick our way into a little while ago?"

"Oh… Scholar Treganne's. Who told you to stop doing that to my hair? Oh, much better." "Will she be pissed off?"

"More so than usual?" Ezri yawned and shrugged. "She's free to find a lover of her own and kick it back whenever she pleases. I'm too preoccupied to be diplomatic" She kissed Jean's neck, and he shivered. "Besides. Night hasn't nearly run its course yet. We may yet kick the whole damn thing down if I have my way, Jerome."

"Then it's your way we'll have," said Jean, gently shifting the weight of her body until they were laying on their sides, face to face. He ran his hands as carefully as he could over the stiff bandages on her upper arms; the only thing she couldn't in good sense take off. His hands moved to her cheeks, and then to her hair. They kissed for the sort of endless moment that only exists between lovers whose lips are still new territory to one another. "Jerome," she whispered. "No. Do something for me, Ezri, in private: never call me that." "Why not?"

"Call me by my real name." He kissed her neck, put his lips to one of her ears and whispered into it. "Jean…" she repeated. "Gods, yes. Say that again." "Jean Estevan Tannen. I like that." "Yours and yours alone,"Jean whispered.

"Something in return," she said. "Ezriane Dastiri de la Mastron. Dame Ezriane of the House of Mastron. Nicora." "Really? You have an estate or something?"

"Doubt it. Spare daughters who run away from home don't tend to receive holdings." She kissed him again, then ruffled his beard with her fingertips. "In fact, with the letter I left mother and father, I'm sure I was disinherited at the best possible speed." "Gods. I'm sorry."

"Don't be." She moved her fingers down to his chest. "These things happen. You keep moving. You find things here and there that help you forget."

"You do indeed," he whispered, and then they were too busy to talk for a good long while.

9

Locke was pulled out of his vivid thicket of dreams by a number of things: the rising heat of day, the pressure of three cups of wine in his bowels, the moans of the hung-over men around him and the sharp prick of claws from the heavy little creature sleeping on the back of his neck.

Struck by a sudden foggy memory of Scholar Treganne's spider, he gasped in horror and rolled over, clutching at whatever was clinging to him. He blinked several times to clear the veil of slumber from his eyes and found himself struggling not with a spider but with a kitten, narrow-faced and black-furred. "The hell?" Locke muttered.

"Mew," the kitten retorted, locking gazes with him. It had the expression common to all kittens, that of a tyrant in the becoming. / was comfortable, and you dared to move, those jade eyes said. For that you must die. When it became apparent to the cat that its two or three pounds of mass were insufficient to break Locke's neck with one mighty snap, it put its paws on his shoulders and began sharing its drool-covered nose with his lips. He recoiled. "That's Regal," said someone to Locke's left.

"Regal? No, it's ridiculous." Locke tucked the kitten under his arm like a dangerous alchemical device. Its fur was thin and silky, and it began to purr noisily. The man who'd spoken was Jabril; Locke raised his eyebrows when he saw that Jabril was lying on his back, stark naked.

"His name," said Jabril. "Regal. He's got that white spot on his throat. And a wet nose, right?" "The very one." "Regal. You been adopted, Ravelle. Ain't that ironic?"

"My life's ambition realized at last." Locke glanced around the half-empty undercastle. Several of the new Orchids were snoring loudly; one or two were crawling to their feet and at least one was sleeping contentedly in a pool of his own vomit. Or so Locke assumed it was his own. Jean was nowhere to be seen.

"And how was your evening, Ravelle?" Jabril pushed himself up on both elbows. "Virtuous, I think."

"My condolences." Jabril smiled. "You ever met Malakasti from the Blue Watch? Got the sorta red hair and the daggers tattooed on her knuckles? Gods, I don't think she's human." "You vanished early from the party, I'll say that."

"Yeah. She had some demands. And some friends." Jabril massaged his temples with his right hand. "That boatswain from Red Watch, fellow with no fingers on his left hand. Had no idea they taught gods-fearing Ashmiri lads them sorts of trick. Whew." "Lads? I didn't know you, ah, stalked that particular quarry."

"Yeah, well, seems I'll try anything once." Jabril grinned. "Or five or six times, as it turns out." He scratched his belly and appeared to become aware of his lack of clothes for the first time. "Hell. I remember owning breeches as recently as yesterday…"

Locke emerged into sunlight a few minutes later with Regal still tucked under his arm. As Locke stretched and yawned, the cat did the same, attempting to wriggle out of Locke's grasp and presumably climb back atop his head. Locke held the tiny fellow up and stared at him.

"I'm not getting attached to you," he said. "Find someone else to share your drool with." Well aware that any mistreatment of the little fellow might get him thrown over the side, he set the kitten down and nudged him with a bare foot.

"You sure you're authorized to give orders to that cat?" Locke turned to see Jean standing on the forecastle steps, just finishing pulling a tunic on. "Gotta be careful. He might be a watch-mate."

"If he acknowledges any rank, I think he puts himself somewhere between Drakasha and the Twelve." Locke stared up at Jean for several seconds. "Hi." "Hello…"

"Look, there's a lot of tedious "I was an ass" sort of conversation to stumble through, and I'm still feeling a bit victimized by that blue wine, so let's just assume—" "I'm sorry," said Jean. "No, that's my job." T meant… we really found our jagged edges again, didn't we?"

"If there's one thing a battle isn't, it's calming on the nerves. I don't blame you for… what you said."

"We can think of something," said Jean, quietly and urgently. "Something together. I know you're not… I didn't mean to insult your—" T deserved it. And you were right. I spoke to Drakasha last night." "You did?"

T told her…" Locke grimaced, stretched again, used the motion to cover a series of hand signals. Jean followed, his eyebrows rising. Didn't mention Bondsmagi, Sinspire, Camorr, real names. All else, truth. "Really?" said Jean. "Yes." Locke stared down at the deck. "I said you were right." "And how did she—"

Locke mimed a roll of the dice and shrugged. "We're for Port Prodigal before anything else happens," he said. "Chores to do. Then she said… she'll let us know." T see. And so—" "Did you have a good night?" "Gods, yes." "Good. About, ah, what I said yesterday—" "You don't need—"

"I do. It was the dumbest of all the things I said yesterday. Dumbest and least fair. I know I" ve been… hopeless for so long I wear it like armour. I don't begrudge you anything you have. Savour it." "I do," said Jean. "Believe me, I do." "Good. I'm no one you want to learn from." "Uh, so—"

"All's well, Master Valora." Locke smiled, pleased to feel the corners of his mouth creeping up of their own volition. "But that wine I was talking about—" "Wine? Did you—"

"Craplines, Jerome. I need to piss before my innards explode. You're blocking the stairs."

"Ah."Jean stepped down and slapped Locke on the back. "My apologies. Free yourself, brother."

1

The Poison Orchid bore west by south through muggy air and moderate seas, and the days rolled by for Locke in a rhythm of chores.

He and Jean were placed on the Red Watch, which had been put under Lieutenant Delmastro's direct oversight in Nasreen's absence. Grand initiation ceremonies did nothing to sate the ship's appetite for maintenance; the masts still needed to be slushed, the seams checked and rechecked, the decks swept, the rigging adjusted. Locke oiled sabres from the weapons lockers, heaved at the capstan to shift cargo for better trim, served ale at the mid-evening meals and pulled rope fragments to oakum until his fingers were red.

Drakasha acknowledged Locke with terse nods but said nothing, and summoned him to no more private conversations.

As full crew, the ex-Messengers had the right to sleep more or less where they would. Some opted for the main hold, especially those who claimed willing hammock-partners among the old Orchids, but Locke found himself comfortable enough with the now-roomier undercastle. He won a spare tunic in a game of dice and used it as a pillow, a luxury after days of bare deck alone. He slept like a stone statue after finishing each night's watch just before the red light of dawn. Jean, of course, slept elsewhere after the night watches.

They had no sightings until the twenty-fifth of the month, when the winds shifted and began to blow strongly from the south. Locke had collapsed into his usual spot against the undercastle's larboard wall at sunrise, and then snored for several hours in the fashion of the eminently self-satisfied until some sort of commotion awoke him to find Regal draped across his neck.

"Gah," he said, and the kitten took this as a signal to perch his forepaws on Locke's cheeks and begin poking his wet nose directly between Locke's eyes. Locke seized the kitten, sat up and blinked. His skull felt full of cobwebs; something had definitely woken him prematurely.

"Was it you?" he muttered, frowning and rubbing the top of Regal's skull with two fingers. "We have to stop meeting like this, kid. I'm not getting attached to you."

"Land ho," came a faint cry from outside the undercastle. "Three points off the larboard bow!" Locke set Regal down, gave him an unambiguous nudge toward some other snoring sleeper and crawled out into the morning light.

Activity on deck looked normal; nobody was rushing about, or delivering urgent messages to Drakasha, or even crowding the rail to try to spot the approaching land. Someone slapped Locke on the back and he turned to find himself facing Utgar, who had a coil of rope slung over his shoulder. The Vadran nodded in a friendly fashion. "You look confused, Red Watch."

"It's just… I heard the cry. I thought there" d be more excitement. Will that be Port Prodigal?"

"Nah. It's the Ghostwinds, right, but we're just fetching the edges. Miserable places. Asp Island, Bastard Rock, the Opal Sands. Nowhere we" d want to touch. Two days yet to Prodigal, and with the winds like this, we're not getting in the way we" d like, hey?" "What do you mean?"

"You'll see." Utgar grinned, enjoying some private knowledge. "You'll see for damn sure. Get your beauty sleep, right? You're back on the masts in two hours."

2

The Ghostwind Isles gradually crowded in around the Orchid like a gang of muggers savouring their slow approach to a target. The horizon, once clear, sprouted islands thick with mist-capped jungle. Tall, black peaks rumbled intermittently, belching lines of steam or smoke into the heavy grey skies. Rain washed down in sheets, not the merciless storms of the high seas but rather the indifferent sweat of the tropics, blood-warm and barely pushed by the jungle breeze.

The waters lightened with their passage west, from the cobalt of the deeps to sky-blue to translucent aquamarine. The place was teeming with life; birds wheeled overhead, fish darted through the shallows in silver clouds and sinuous shapes larger than men shadowed them. They stalked languidly in the Orchid's wake as well: scythe sharks, blue widowers, bad-luck reefmen, daggerfins. Eeriest of all were the local wolf sharks, whose sand-coloured backs enabled them to vanish into the pale haze below the ship. It took a keen eye to spot the ghostly incongruities that betrayed their lurking, and they had the disconcerting habit of circling beneath the craplines. Locke thanked the gods that they weren't jumpers.

For a day and a half they sailed on, heeling over to dodge the occasional reef or smaller island. Drakasha and Delmastro seemed to know the area by heart and muttered over Drakasha's charts only at rare intervals. Locke began to glimpse human detritus on the shoals and rocks — here a weathered mast, there the skeletal ribs of an ancient keel on the sandy bottom. On one afternoon watch, he spotted hundreds of crablike things the size of dogs congregating on the overturned bottom of a ship's hull. As the Orchid passed, the creatures fled from their artificial reef en masse, making the water around it froth white. In moments they had vanished completely.

Locke went off that watch a few hours later, aware of a steadily growing tension in the crew around him. Something had changed. Drakasha paced the quarterdeck ceaselessly, ordered extra lookouts to the mastheads and held whispered conferences with Delmastro and Mumchance.

"She won't tell me what's going on," said Jean after Locke dropped what he thought was a subtle hint. "She's all lieutenant and no Ezri at the moment."

"That in itself tells us something," said Locke. "Tells us to curb our good cheer."

Drakasha mustered all hands at the evening watch change. All the Orchids, one vast, sweaty, anxious mass of men and women, fixed their eyes on the quarterdeck rail and waited for the captain's words. The sun was a disc of burning copper crowning jungle heights dead ahead; the colours of fire were creeping up layer by layer through the clouds, and all around them the islands were falling into shadow.

"Well," said Drakasha, "here it is, plain. The winds have been steady as hell these past few days, out of the south. We can drop anchor in Prodigal tonight, but we can't make it through the Trader's Gate."

There was a general murmur from the crowd. Lieutenant Delmastro, stepping up beside the captain, placed a hand on her weapons belt and hollered, "Quiet! Perelandro's piss, most of us have been here before."

"So we have," said Drakasha. "Stout hearts, Orchids. We'll do the usual. Red Watch, take some ease. Expect an all-hands call in a few hours. After that, nobody sleeps, nobody drinks, nobody fucks until we're safe home again. Blue Watch, you have the duty. Del, see to the newcomers. Run it all down for them."

"Run what down?" Locke looked around, asking the question to the air as the crew dispersed.

"Two passages to get to Port Prodigal," said Jabril. "First, Trader's Gate, that's north of the city. Twelve miles long, say. Twists and turns, shoals all over the place. Slow going at the best of times, but with a hard south wind, piss on it. It'll take us days." "So what the hell are we doing?"

"Second way, from the west. Half as long. Still twisty, but ain't near so bad. Especially with this wind. But it don't get used if anyone can help it. They call it the Parlour Passage." "Why?"

"Because there's something there," said Lieutenant Delmastro, pushing her way through the little crowd, ex-Messengers all, that had gathered around Jabril. Locke saw her give Jean's arm the briefest squeeze, and then she continued: "Something… lives there."

"Something?" Locke couldn't keep a hint of irritation out of his voice. "Is the ship in danger?" "No," said Delmastro. "Let me be more specific, then. Are those of us aboard her in danger?"

T don't know," said Delmastro, sharing a glance with Jabril. "Will something come aboard the ship? No. Absolutely not. Might you… feel like leaving the ship? I can't say. Depends on your temperament."

"I'm not sure I'd enjoy the close attention of anything swimming in these waters," said Locke.

"Good. Then you probably don't have anything to worry about." Delmastro sighed. "All of you, think on what the captain said. A bit of rest is the thing; you'll be called up halfway through your usual off-watch, so snatch what you can." She stepped up beside Jean and Locke overhead her whisper, T certainly intend to." "I'll, ah, find you later then, Jerome." Locke smiled despite himself. "You going to catch a nap?" asked Jean. "Bloody hell, no. I expect to twiddle my thumbs and go steadily out of my skull until called for duty. Maybe I can find someone to share a hand of cards—" "Doubt it," said Delmastro. "Your reputation—" "Unjust persecution for my good fortune," said Locke.

"Yeah, well, maybe you should consider a public streak of bad luck. Word to the wise." She blew Locke a mocking little kiss. "Or whatever you are, Ravelle."

"Oh, steal Jerome and do your worst to him." Locke folded his arms and grinned; Delmastro's loosening up toward him had been a welcome change over the previous few days. "I'll be judging your performance by how pissed off Treganne is when we see her next. Hell, that's how I can amuse myself. I'll solicit wagers on how riled-up you two can get the Scholar—"

"You do anything of the sort," said Delmastro, "and I'll chain you to an anchor by your precious bits and have you dragged over a reef."

"No, this is a good scheme," said Jean. "We could place our own bets with him, then rig the contest—" "This ship has two anchors, Valora!"

3

Dusk was approaching by the time Jean and Ezri crept back up to the quarterdeck. Drakasha stood near the taffrail, cradling Cosetta in her left arm and holding a small silver cup in her right.

"You must drink it, love," whispered Drakasha. "It's a special nighttime drink for pirate princesses." "No," muttered Cosetta. "Are you not a pirate princess?" "No!" "I think you are. Be good—" "Don't want!"

Jean thought back to his time in Camorr, and to how Chains had sometimes behaved when one of the young Gentlemen Bastards had decided to throw a fit. Thed'r been much older than Cos, true, but children were children and Drakasha looked hollow-eyed with worry.

"My, my," he said loudly, approaching the Drakashas so that Cosetta could see him. "That looks very good, Captain Drakasha."

"It does look very good," she said, "and it tastes better than it looks—" Teh," said Cosetta. "Ahhhhh! No!" "You must? said her mother.

"Captain," said Jean, pretending to be entranced by the silver cup, "that looks so wonderful. If Cosetta doesn't want it, I'll have it."

Drakasha stared at him, and then smiled. "Well…" she said, sounding grudging, "if Cosetta doesn't want it, I suppose I have no choice." She slowly moved the cup away from Cosetta and toward Jean, and the little girl's eyes grew wide. "No," she said, "no!"

"But you don't want it," said Drakasha with an air of finality. "Jerome does. So it's going away, Cosetta." "Mmmm," said Jean. "I'll drink it straight away." "No!" Cosetta grabbed for the cup. "No, no, no!"

"Cosetta," said Drakasha sternly, "if you want it, you must drink it. Do you understand?"

The little girl nodded, her mouth an "o" of concern, her fingers straining to reach the suddenly invaluable prize. Zamira held the silver cup to Cosetta's lips and the little girl drained it with urgent greed.

"Very good," said Drakasha, kissing her daughter on the forehead, "very, very good. Now I'm going to take you down so you and Paolo can go to sleep." She slipped the empty silver cup into a coat pocket, slung Cosetta round to the front of her chest and nodded at Jean. "Thank you for that, Valora. Deck is yours, Del. Just a few minutes."

"She hates doing that," said Ezri quietly when Drakasha had vanished down the companionway. "Feeding Cos for the night?"

"It's milk of poppy. She puts them both to sleep… for the Parlour Passage. No way in hell she wants them awake when we go through it." "What the hell is going to—"

"It's difficult to explain," said Ezri. "It's easier just to get it over with. But you'll be fine, I know you will." She ran one hand up and down his back. "You manage to survive me in my poorer moods."

"Ah," said Jean, "but when a woman has your heart, she doesn't have poor moods. Only interesting moods… and more interesting moods."

"Where I was born, obnoxious flatterers were hung out to dry in iron cages."

"I can see why you ran away. You inspire such flattery that any man who talked to you at length would have been caged up after—" "You are beyond obnoxious!" "I need to do something to keep my mind off whatever's coming—" "What we just did below wasn't enough?" "Well, I suppose we could always go back down and—"

"Alas that the biggest bitch on this ship isn't even Drakasha or myself, but duty." She kissed Jean on the cheek. "You want something to keep yourself busy, you can get started with preparations for the Passage. Go to the for" ard lantern locker and bring me the alchemical lights." "How many?" "All of them," she said. "Every last one you can find."

4

The tenth hour of the evening. Night fell like a cloak over the Gho-stwinds and the Poison Orchid, under topsails, stood in to the Parlour Passage gilded in white and amber light. A hundred alchemical lanterns had been shaken to life and placed around the ship's entire hull, a few in the rigging but most beneath the rail, casting rippling facets of false fire on the dark water just below.

"By the deep six," called one of the two sailors Drakasha had placed at the sides, where they cast their lead-lines to gauge the amount of water between the ship's hull and the sea-bottom. Six fathoms; thirty-six feet. The Orchid could slip through far shallower straits than that.

Ordinarily, soundings were occasional and one leadsman would suffice to take them. Now the men, two of her oldest and most experienced, cast their lines and called the results continually. What's more, each of them was watched by a small party of… minders, was the best word Jean could come up with. Sailors who were armed and armoured.

Strange precautions had been ordered all over the ship. The small, elite crew who waited above to work the sails had safety-lines lashed around their waists; they would dangle like pendulums if they fell but at least thed'r probably live. Real fires were extinguished, smoking strictly forbidden. Drakasha's children slept in her cabin with the stern shutters locked and the companionway door guarded. Drakasha herself had her Elderglass mosaic vest buckled on, and her sabres hung ready in their scabbards. "A quarter less six," called a leadsman.

"Fog coming up," said Jean. He and Locke stood at the starboard rail of the quarterdeck. Drakasha paced nearby, Mumchance had the wheel and Delmastro stood by the binnacle with a small rack of precision timing glasses. "That's how it starts," said Mumchance.

The Orchidwas entering a mile-wide channel between cliffs that rose to about half the height of the masts and were surmounted by dark jungle that rose and faded into the blackness. There were faint sounds of things unseen in that jungle: screeches, snapping, rustling. The ship's arcs of lanterns made the waters around them clear for fifty or sixty feet, and at the edges of that gleaming circle Jean saw threads of grey mist beginning to curl out of the water. "And a half five," came the cry from the starboard leadsman.

"Captain Drakasha." Utgar stood at the taffrail, log-line pinched between his fingers. "Four knots, hey"

"Aye," said Drakasha. "Four knots, and our stern's even with the mouth of the Passage. Give me ten minutes, Del."

Delmastro nodded, flipped one of her glasses over and kept watch as sand began to trickle from the upper chamber to the lower. Drakasha moved to the forward quarterdeck rail.

"Heed this," she said to the crewfolk working or waiting on deck. "If you start to feel peculiar, stay away from the rails. If you cannot abide the deck, go below. This is a chore we must endure, and we've come through it before. You cannot be harmed if you stay on the ship. Hold fast to that thought. Do not leave the ship."

The mist was rising now, layering upon itself. The shadowy outlines of cliffs and jungles beyond were swiftly vanishing. Before them was nothing but blackness. "Ten, Captain," said Delmastro at last. "By the mark five," cried one of the leadsmen.

"Mum, put your helm down." Drakasha used a stick of charcoal to scrawl a quick note on a folded parchment. "Two spokes a-lee." "Aye, Captain, helm a-lee by two."

At the sailing master's slight adjustment to the wheel, the ship leaned to larboard. Sailors overhead made faint adjustments to sails and rigging acting on instructions Drakasha had drilled into them before thed'r entered the Passage. "Give me twelve minutes, Del.". "Aye, Captain, twelve it is."

As those twelve minutes passed, the fog grew thicker, like smoke from a well-fed fire. It closed on either side, a swirling grey wall that seemed to lock their own light and sound in a bubble, closing off all hint of the outside world. The creak of the blocks and rigging, the slap of the water on the hull, the babble of voices — all these familiar things echoed flatly, and the jungle noises vanished. Still the fog encroached, until it crossed the ephemeral line of well-lit water created by the lanterns. Visibility in any direction now died at forty feet. "Twelve, Captain," said Delmastro.

"Mum, put up your helm," said Drakasha, staring at the compass in the binnacle. "Helm a-weather. Bring us north-west by west." She shouted to the crewfolk at the waist: "Make ready to shift yards! Northwest by west, wind to the larboard quarter!"

There were several minutes of activity as the ship came slowly around to its new course and the crew rebraced the yards. All the while, Jean became more convinced that he wasn't imagining the sound-dampening nature of the fog. The noise of their activity simply died when it hit that intangible shroud. In fact, the only evidence of a world beyond the mist was the wet, earthy smell of jungle blowing in with the warm breeze across the quarterdeck. "By the mark seven," called a leadsman. "Twenty-two minutes, Del." "Aye," said Delmastro, turning her glasses like an automaton.

The next twenty-two minutes passed in claustrophobic silence, punctuated only by the occasional flutter of sail canvas and the shouts of the leadsmen. Tension built as the minutes crawled by, until— "Time, Captain."

"Thanks, Del. Mum, put your helm down. Bring us south-west by west." She raised her voice: "Lively, now! Tacks and sheets! To the larboard tack, south-west by west!"

Sails shuddered and crewfolk ran about swearing and working ropes as the ship heeled back onto the larboard tack. They spun at the heart of the fog; the jungle-scented breeze seemed to rotate around them like a boxer dancing around an opponent, until Jean could feel it against his left cheek. "Hold steady, Mum," said Drakasha. "Ezri, fifteen minutes." "Fifteen, aye." "Here it fucking comes," muttered Mumchance.

"Belay that crap," said Drakasha. "Only thing truly dangerous out here is us, got it?" Jean felt a prickling sensation on the skin of his forehead. He reached up and wiped away the sweat that was beading there. "A quarter less five," called a leadsman. Jean, whispered a faint voice. "What, Orrin?"

"Huh?" Locke was gripping the rail with both hands and barely spared a glance for Jean. "What did you want?" "I didn't say anything." "Are you—" Jean Tannen. "Oh, gods," said Locke. "You, too?" Jean stared at him. "A voice—"

"Not from the air," whispered Locke. "More like… you know who. Back in Camorr." "Why is it saying my—"

"It's not," said Drakasha in a low, urgent voice. "We all hear it talking to us. We all hear our own names. Hold fast."

"Crooked Warden, I will fear no darkness, for the night is yours," muttered Locke, pointing the first two fingers of his left hand into the darkness. The Dagger of the Thirteenth, a thief's gesture against evil. "Your night is my cloak, my shield, my escape from those who hunt to feed the noose. I will fear no evil, for you have made the night my friend."

"Bless the Benefactor," said Jean, squeezing Locke's left forearm. "Peace and profit to his children." Jean… Estevan… Tannen.

He felt the voice, realizing somehow that the impression of sound was just a trick he played upon himself, an echo in his ears. He felt its intrusion into his awareness like the brush of insect legs against his skin. He wiped his forehead again and realized that he was sweating profusely, even for the warm night. Forward, someone started sobbing loudly. "Twelve,"Jean heard Ezri whispering. "Twelve more minutes."

The water is cool, Jean Tannen. You… sweat. Your clothes itch. Skin… itch. But the water is cool

Drakasha squared her shoulders and strolled down the quarterdeck steps to the waist. She found the sobbing crewman, hauled him gently to his feet and gave him a pat on the back. "Chins up, Orchids. This isn't flesh and blood. This isn't a fight. Stand fast."

She sounded bold enough. Jean wondered how many of her crew knew or guessed that she drugged her children rather than put them through this.

Was it merely Jean's imagination, or was the fog lightening to starboard? The haze was no thinner, but the darkness behind it seemed to abate… to acquire a sickly luminescence. A whispering hiss of water grew into a steady, rhythmic pulse. Waves breaking over shoals. The black water rippled at the edge of their little circle of light. "The reef," muttered Mumchance. "By the deep four," called a leadsman.

Something stirred in the fog, the faintest impression of movement. Jean peered at the swirling gloom, straining to catch it again. He rubbed at his chest, where his sweat-soaked tunic irritated the skin beneath.

Come to the water, Jean Tannen. Water so cool. Come. Lose tunic, lose sweat, lose itch. Bring…the woman. Bring her with you to the water. Come. "Gods," whispered Locke, "whatever's out there knows my real name." "Mine as well," said Jean. "I mean, it's not calling me Locke. It knows my real name." "Oh. Shit."

Jean stared down at the black water and heard the sound of it breaking over the unseen reef. It couldn't be cool… it had to be as warm as everything else in this damn place. But the sound… the sound of those waves was not so unpleasant. He listened, entranced for several seconds, then raised his head lethargically and stared into the fog.

Something was there, for the briefest instant — a dark shape visible through the curtains of mist. Man-sized. Tall, thin and motionless. Waiting there, atop the reef.

Jean shuddered violently and the shape disappeared. He blinked as though waking from a daydream. The fog was now as dark and solid as ever, the imagined light gone, the hissing rush of water over shoals no longer so pleasing to his ears. Sweat ran in itching streams down his neck and arms and he welcomed the distraction, scratching himself furiously.

"By the… by the, ah, deep four… and a quarter four…" murmured a leadsman.

"Time," said Ezri, seeming to come out of a daze of her own. "Time, time!" "Surely not," muttered Locke. "That wasn't… but a few minutes."

"I looked down and the sands were run out. I don't know when it happened." She raised her voice urgently. "Captain! Time!"

"Rouse up, rouse up!" Drakasha bellowed as though the ship were under attack. "Tacks and sheets! Come west by north! Wind to the larboard quarter, brace the yards!" "West by north, aye," said Mumchance.

"I don't understand," said Ezri, staring at her timing glasses. Jean saw that her blue tunic was soaked with sweat, her hair matted, her face slick. "I was watching the glasses. It was as if… I just blinked, and… all the time was gone."

The deck was alive with vigorous commotion. Once more the breeze shifted, the fog swirled around them and Mumchance settled them onto their new course with precise, almost delicate shifts of his wheel. "Gods," said Ezri. "That one was as bad as I can remember." "Never been like that before," added Mumchance. "How much longer?" asked Jean, not ashamed to sound anxious.

"That's our last turn," said Ezri. "Assuming we didn't slip south far enough that we run aground on something in these next few minutes, it's straight on west by north all the way to Port Prodigal."

They slipped on through the dark waters, and gradually the strange sensations on Jean's skin ebbed. The fog withdrew, first opening into cleaner darkness before the ship and then unravelling behind them. The light from the lanterns began to pour back out into the night, unrestrained, and the reassuring noise of the jungle on either side of the channel returned. "By the deep eight," came a leadsman's shout.

"That's the main channel," said Drakasha, ascending the steps to the quarterdeck once again. "Well done, everyone." She turned to look out over the waist. "Take in most of the lanterns. Leave a few out for navigation, so we don't surprise anyone coming into the harbour. Keep the leads going." She reached out and put her arms around Mumchance and Ezri, squeezing their shoulders. "I know I said no drinking, but I think we could all do with a brace."

Her gaze fell on Locke and Jean. "You two look as though you could use a job. Fetch up an ale cask and serve it out at the mainmast." She raised her voice to a shout: "Half a cup for anyone who wants it."

As Jean hurried forward with Locke close behind, he was pleased to feel the tension of a few moments earlier evaporating. Crewfolk were smiling again, chattering away at one another, even laughing here and there. A few kept to themselves, arms folded and eyes downcast, but even they looked relieved. The only odd thing about the scene, Jean realized, was how assiduously most of them were trying to keep their attention focused on the ship and the people around them.

More than an hour would pass before many of them would allow themselves to glance out at the water again.

5

If you could stand on air a thousand feet above Port Prodigal, this midnight, you would see a tenuous ribbon of light set like a jewel in the midst of boundless tropical darkness. Clouds veil the moons and the stars. Even the thin red lines of volcanic flow that sometimes ignite the far horizons are missing; those dark mountains smoulder tonight without visible fire.

Prodigal claims a long beach on the north side of a vast, hilly island. Miles of ancient rainforest recede into the night behind it; not a speck of light burns anywhere within that grim expanse.

The broad harbour, enclosed on all sides, is uncommonly friendly to ships once they slip through either of the arduous passages that bring them from the sea. There are no reefs, no smaller islands, no navigational hazards marring the sandy white bottom of the bay. At the eastern end of town the water shallows to waist-depth, while in the west even heavy ships may all but kiss the shore and keep eight or nine fathoms beneath their keels.

A forest of masts rocks gently above these depths, a floating hodgepodge of docks, boats, working ships and hulls in every state of disrepair. There are two loosely defined anchorages serving Port Prodigal — first, the Graveyard, where float the hundreds of hulls and wrecks that will never move on the open sea again. East of that, claiming all the larger, newer docks, lies the Hospital, so called because its patients may yet live.

6

A bell began tolling, its slow clang echoing off the water, as soon as the Poison Orchid emerged from the Parlour Passage.

Locke stared over the ship's larboard rail, toward the lights of the city and their rippling reflections on the bay.

"Harbour watch'll ring that damn thing until we drop anchor."Jabril had taken note of his curiosity and moved to the rail beside him. "Gotta let everyone know they're on the job so they keep getting paid their liquor ration." "You spend much time here, Jabril?"

"Born here. Prison in Tal Verrar is what I got the one time I tried to see some other oceans."

Dropping anchor in Prodigal Bay had none of the ceremony Locke had seen elsewhere; no shore pilots, no customs officers, not even a single curious fisherman. And, to his surprise, Drakasha didn't take the Orchid all the way in. They settled about half a mile offshore, furled sails and kept their lanterns burning.

"Drop a boat to larboard," ordered Drakasha, peering at the city and its anchorages through her glass. "Then rig razor-nets at the starboard. Keep lanterns burning. Dismiss Blue Watch below but have sabres ready at the masts. Del, get Malakasti, Dantierre, Big Konar and Rask." "Your will, Captain."

After helping a work party heave one of the ship's larger boats over the side, Locke approached Drakasha on the quarterdeck and found her still studying the town through her glass. "I take it you have reason for caution, Captain?"

"We've been out for a few weeks," said Drakasha, "and things change. I" ve got a big crew and a big ship, but neither of them is the biggest there is." "Do you see something that makes you nervous?"

"Not nervous. Curious. Looks like most of us are home for once. See that line of ships at the eastern docks, closest to us? Four of the council captains are in town. Five, now that I'm back." She lowered her glass and looked sidelong at him. "Plus two or three independent traders, near as I can tell." "I really hope it doesn't come to that," he said quietly.

At that moment Lieutenant Delmastro returned to the quarterdeck, armed and armoured, with four sailors in tow.

Malakasti, a thin woman with more tattoos than words in her vocabulary, had a shipwide reputation as a knife-fighter. Dantierre was a bearded, balding Verrari who favoured tattered nobleman's silks; he'd gone outlaw after a long career as a professional duellist. Big Konar, true to his name, was the largest slab of human flesh aboard the Orchid. And Rask — well, Rask was a type that Locke recognized almost immediately, a murderer's murderer. Drakasha, like many garrista back in Camorr, would keep him on a short leash and give him his head only when she needed blood on the wall. Lots of blood on the wall.

A brutal crew, none of them young and none of them new to Drakasha's command. Locke pondered this while all hands were briefly mustered at the waist.

"Utgar has the ship," Drakasha announced. "We're not putting in tonight. I'm taking Del and a shore party to sound out the town. If all's well, we'll have a busy few days… and we'll start divvying up the shares tomorrow evening. Try not to gamble it all away to your watchmates before it's even in your hands, eh?

"In the meantime, Red Watch, mind the ship. Razor-nets on starboard stay up until we come back. Post lookouts up every mast and keep an eye on the waterline. Blue Watch, some of you sleep near the arms lockers if you're so inclined. Keep daggers and clubs at hand even if you're not." To Utgar, she said more quietly: "Double guard on my cabin door all night." "Aye, Captain."

Drakasha vanished into her cabin for a few moments. She re-emerged, still in her Elderglass mosaic vest, with her sabres now in fine jewelled scabbards, gleaming emeralds in her ears and gold rings over the black leather gloves on her hands. Locke and Jean confronted her together, as unobtrusively as they could. "Ravelle, I do not have time—"

"Captain," said Locke, "you" ve put together a bruising crew because you're out to scare someone who might give you trouble, haven't you? And if they're too stupid to take a hint, you want people who can end things quick. I strongly, strongly suggest that Jerome would serve you well on both counts."

"I… hmmm." She stared at Jean, as though only just noticing the width of his shoulders and upper arms. "That might just add the finishing touch. All right, Valora, you fancy a short night out?"

"I do," said Jean. "But I work best as part of a team. Orrin is just the man to—" "You two think you're so clever," said Drakasha. "But—"

"I mean it," said Jean hurriedly. "Humble apologies, but you" ve seen what he does. You'll have a pile of strongarms at your back; bring him for… situations unforeseen." "Tonight is delicate business," said Drakasha. "Misstepping in Port Prodigal after midnight is like pissing on an angry snake. I need—" "Ahem," said Locke. "Originally, we're from Camorr." "Oh. Be on the boat in five minutes," said Drakasha.

7

Drakasha took the bow, Delmastro the stern, and everyone else an oar. At a stately pace they scudded across the calm surface of the bay.

"At least that jackass finally stopped ringing the bell," muttered Jean. He had taken a spot on the last rowing bench, next to Big Konar, so he could chat with Ezri. She was trailing one of her hands in the water. "Is that wise?" Jean asked.

"What, fiddling with the water?" Ezri hooked a thumb over her shoulder in the direction of the Parlour Passage outlet. "You can't see them by night, but at the entrances to the bay there are rows of huge white stones set across the bottom. Regular lines of them." "Eldren stones," muttered Konar.

"They don't bother us," said Ezri, "but nothing else will pass them. Not one single thing lives in this bay; you can swim at dusk with bloody cuts on your feet and nothing will come along for a taste."

"But not too close to the docks. Piss," said Konar, almost apologetically. "Well, damn," said Jean. "That sounds nice."

"Sure, I suppose," said Ezri. "Makes fishing a pain in the arse. Little boats crowd the Trader's Gate Passage and muck up the works there more than usual. Speaking of mucking up the works…" "Mmm?" "I don't see the Red Messenger anywhere." "Ah."

"But she was crawling like a snail," she said. "And we do have some interesting company in her place." "Such as?"

"See that first row of ships? Starboard to larboard, that's Osprey, Pierro Strozzi's lugger. His crew's tiny and so's his ambition, but he could sail a barrel through a hurricane. Next to that, Regal Bitch, Captain Chavon Ranee. Ranee is a pain in the arse. Has a real temper. Next is Draconic, Jacquelaine Colvard's brig. She's reasonable, and she's been out here longer than anyone. "That big three-master on the far end is the Dread Sovereign, Jaffrim Rodanov's lady. Nasty piece of work. Last I saw she was on the beach being careened, but now she looks ready for sea."

With six people pulling at the oars, they made short work of the trip. In just a few moments they were alongside a crumbling stone jetty. As Jean secured his oar, he spied a man's corpse bobbing gently in the water.

"Ah," said Ezri. "Poor bastard. That's the mark of a lively night in these parts."

Drakasha's shore party tied the boat to the very end of the jetty and went up as though boarding an enemy vessel, with wary hearts and hands near their weapons.

"Holy gods," exclaimed a mostly toothless drunk cradling a wineskin in the middle of the jetty. "It's Drakasha, isn't it?" "It is. Who are you?" "Banjital Vo."

"Well, Banjital Vo," said Drakasha, "I'm making you responsible for the safety of the boat we just tied up." "But… I—"

"If it's here when we come back, I'll give you a Verrari silver. If anything's happened to it, I'll ask around for you, and when I find you I'll pull your gods-damned eyes out." "I'll… I'll keep it like it were my own." "No," said Drakasha, "keep it like it's mine?

She led them off the jetty and up a gently sloping sand path bordered by canvas tents, roofless log cabins and partially collapsed stone buildings. Jean could hear the snores of sleeping people within those decrepit structures, plus the soft bleat of goats, the growls of mongrel dogs and the flutter of agitated chickens. A few cookfires had burned down to coals, but there were no lanterns or alchemical lights hung out anywhere on this side of town.

A pungent stream of piss and night soil was trickling down the right-hand side of the path, and Jean stepped carefully to avoid it, as well as a sprawled corpse damming the flow about fifty yards up from the jetty. The occasional semi-lucid drunk or pipe-smoker stared at them from various nooks and shadows, but they weren't spoken to until they crested a rise and found stones beneath their feet once again.

"Drakasha," shouted a corpulent man in leathers with blackened-iron studs, "welcome back to civilization!" The man carried a dim lantern in one hand and a bronze-ringed club in the other. Behind him was a taller fellow, scruffy and pot-bellied, armed with a long oak staff.

"Handsome Marcus," said Drakasha. "Gods, you get uglier every time I come back. Like someone's slowly sculpting an arse out of a human face. Who's the new charmer?"

"Guthrin. Wise lad decided to give up sailing and join the rest of us big swinging cocks in the glamorous life."

"Yeah? Well," Drakasha said, holding out a closed fist and shaking it so that the coins inside clinked against one another, "I found these in the road. They belong to you?"

"I got a happy home for "em right here. See now, Guthrin, that's the style. Show this lady some favour and she returns the compliment. Fruitful voyage, Captain?" "Belly so full we can't swim any more, Marcus."

"Good on you, Captain. You'll want to hear from the Shopbreaker, then?"

"Nobody wants to hear from that waste of a working arsehole, but if he wants to open his purse and bend over, I" ve got a little something in wood and canvas for his collection." "I'll pass the word. You in for the night?" "Toehold, Marcus. Just here to fly the flag."

"Fine idea." He glanced around briefly, and then his voice grew more serious. "Chavon Ranee has the high table at the Crimson. Just so you can look all-knowing when you walk in the door." "Obliged to you."

When the two men had strolled on their way down the path toward the jetty, Jean turned to Ezri. "Guards of some sort?"

"Maintainers," she said. "More like a gang. Sixty or seventy of them, and they're what we have for order around here. Captains pay them a little out of every load they bring in, and they beat the rest of their living out of public nuisances. You can pretty much do as you like, long as you hide the bodies and don't burn anything down or wake up half the city. Do that and the Maintainers come out to do a bit of maintaining." "So what's "flying the flag", exactly?"

"Gotta play these games sometimes," said Ezri. "Let everyone in Prodigal know that Zamira's back, that she's got a hold full of swag, that she'll kick their heads in for looking at her cross-eyed. You know? Especially her brother and sister captains." "Ah. I'm with you."

They entered the city proper; here, at least, were the lights thed'r seen from out in the bay, pouring from open windows and doors on both sides of the street. The buildings here had started as respectable stone homes and shops, but time and mischief had marked their faces. Broken windows were covered over with planking from ships or scraps of tattered sailcloth. Many of the houses sprouted leaning wooden additions that looked unsafe to approach, let alone live in; others grew wattle-and-daub third or fourth storeys like mushrooms from their old roofs.

Jean felt a sudden pang of grudging nostalgia. Drunkards lying senseless in the alleys. Larcenous children eyeing their party from the shadows. Maintainers in long leather coats thumping some poor bastard senseless behind a cart with no wheels. The sounds of swearing, argument, laughter and ale-sickness pouring from every open window and door… this place was, if not quite a fraternal relation to Camorr, at least a first cousin.

"Orchids," hollered someone from a second-storey window. "Orchids!"

Zamira acknowledged the drunken shout with a casual wave and turned right at a muddy crossroads. From the dark mouth of an alley a heavyset man stumbled, wearing nothing but soiled breeches. He had the glassy, unfocused eyes of a Jeremite powder-smoker, and in his right hand was a serrated knife the length and width of Jean's forearm.

"Coin or suck," said the man, threads of saliva dangling down his chin. "Don't care which. Got needs. Give us a—"

If he was oblivious to the fact that he was facing eight opponents, he wasn't oblivious to Rask knocking his blade-hand aside and shoving him back into the alley by his neck. What happened next took only a few seconds; Jean heard a wet gurgle, and then Rask was stepping back out into the street, wiping one of his own knives on a rag. He threw this rag into the alley behind him, sheathed his knife and hooked his thumbs nonchalantly into his belt. Ezri and Drakasha didn't appear to think the incident worthy of comment and they strolled on, casual as temple-goers on Penance Day morning.

"Here we are," said Ezri as they reached the top of another small hill. A wide, half-paved square, its muddy sections crisscrossed by overlapping wagon tracks, was dominated by a fat two-storey building with a portico constructed around the chopped-off stern facing of an old ship. Time, weather and no doubt countless brawls had scuffed and chipped its elaborate scrollwork, but people could be seen drinking and revelling behind the second-storey windows, in what would have been the great cabin. Where the rudder had once been mounted was now a heavy double door, flanked by alchemical globes (the round, thick kind that were nearly impossible to break) in an approximation of stern lanterns.

"The Tattered Crimson," Ezri continued. "It's either the heart of Port Prodigal or the arsehole, depending on your perspective."

To the left of the entryway was a ship's longboat, mounted to the building by heavy wooden struts and iron chains. A few human arms and legs were sticking out of it. As Jean watched, the doors to the Tattered Crimson slammed outward and a pair of brutes emerged, carrying a limp old man between them. Without ceremony or pity, they heaved him into the boat, where his arrival caused some incoherent shouting and flailing of limbs.

"Now watch your step," said Ezri, grinning. "Get too drunk to stand and they throw you overboard. Some nights there's ten or twenty people piled up in that boat."

A moment later Jean was squeezing past those brutes into the familiar smells of a busy tavern at an hour closer to dawn than dinner. Sweat, scalded meat, puke, blood, smoke and a dozen kinds of bad ale and wine: the bouquet of civilized nightlife.

The place looked to be constructed for a clientele that would be waging war not just on one another but on the bar and pantry. The bar itself, at the far side of the room, was enclosed from countertop to ceiling by iron panels, leaving only three narrow windows through which the staff could serve drinks and food like archers letting fly from murder-holes.

There were only floor-tables down here, in the Jereshti fashion: low surfaces around which men and women sat, knelt or lay on scuffed cushions. In the cavelike fug of the dimly lit room, they played cards and dice, smoked, drank, arm-wrestled, argued and tried to laugh off the attention of the prowling heavies who were obviously looking for candidates to toss into the boat outside.

Conversation wavered as Drakasha's party appeared; cries of "Orchids!" and "Zamira" s back!" could be heard. Drakasha nodded to the room at large and slowly turned her gaze up to the second floor.

Stairs led up on either side of the common room; at the sides, the second floor was little more than a railed walkway. Above the bar and the entry, it expanded into wider balconies with Therin-style tables and chairs. Jean presumed that the "high table" was the one he'd glimpsed from the outside. A moment later Drakasha began to move toward the stairs that led in that very direction.

A sudden current of excitement rose in the air; too many conversations halted absolutely, too many eyes followed their passage. Jean cracked his knuckles and prepared himself for things to get interesting.

Atop those stairs was a railed alcove backed by the windows overlooking the darkened square from which thed'r just come. Red silk banners hung in niches with alchemical globes behind them, giving off a low, vaguely ominous rose-tinted light. Two wide tables had been pushed together to accommodate a party of twelve, all clearly sailors and toughs much, Jean realized to his own amusement, like themselves.

"Zamira Drakasha," said the woman at the head of the table, rising from her chair. She was young, roughly Jean's own age, with the sun-browned skin and faint lines edging her eyes that told of years spent on the water. Her sand-coloured hair was drawn back into three tails, and though shorter than Zamira she looked to outweigh her by about two stone. Tough and round, this one, with a well-worn sabre hilt visible at her belt.

"Ranee," said Drakasha, "Chay. It's been a long night, love, and you know full well you're sitting at my table."

"That's damn peculiar. It's got our drinks on top of it, and our arses in its chairs. You think it's yours, maybe you should take it with you when you're out of town."

"When I'm away on my business, you mean. Fighting my ship, flying the red flag. You know where the sea is, right? You" ve seen other captains coming and going—"

"I don't have to break myself month in and month out, Drakasha. I just pick richer targets in the first place."

"You're not hearing me, Chay. I really don't care what sort of dog gnaws bones at my place when I'm gone," said Drakasha, "but when I come back I expect her to crawl under the table where she belongs."

Ranee's people exploded out of their chairs and Chay raised a hand, grinning fiercely. "Pull steel, you dusty cunt, and I'll kill you fair in front of witnesses. Then the Maintainers can haul your crew back to the docks for brawling and Ezri here can see how your brats like the taste of her tits—" "Show your hand, Ranee. You think you're fit to keep this spot?" "Name the test and I'll leave you weeping."

"We're going to have the house brutes on us—" Jean whispered to Ezri.

"No," she said, waving him to silence. "Calling out isn't like plain brawling. Especially not between captains."

"For the table," shouted Drakasha, reaching for a half-empty bottle, "all the Crimson as our witness, the contest is drinks. First on her arse takes her sorry crew and moves down to the floor."

"I was hoping for something that" d take longer than ten minutes," said Ranee, "but I accept. You be my guest with that bottle."

Zamira looked around, then snatched two small clay cups of equal size from places previously occupied by Ranee's crewfolk. She tossed their contents onto the tabletop, then refilled them from the bottle. It was white Kodari brandy, Jean saw, rough as turpentine, packing quite a sting. Ranee's crew backed up against the windows, and Ranee herself came around the table to stand beside Zamira. She lifted one of the cups.

"One thing," said Zamira. "You're gonna take your first drink Syrune-fashion." "What the hell's that?"

"Means you drink it through your fucking eyes." Drakasha's left arm was a blur as she whipped her own cup from the tabletop and dashed its contents into Ranee's face. Before Ranee could even scream, Drakasha's right arm came up just as fast. Her gloved fist, rings and all, met Ranee's jaw with the sound of a cracking whip, and the younger woman hit the floor so hard the cups atop the table rattled.

"Are you on your arse down there, love, or is that your head? Anybody think there's a difference?" Drakasha stood over Ranee and slowly tipped the contents of the second clay cup into her own mouth. She swallowed it all without flinching and tossed the cup over her shoulder. "You said it was gonna be—"

Before Ranee's angry crewman, probably her first mate, could finish his protest, Locke stepped forward with his hand upraised.

"Zamira kept her oath. The test was a drink, and your captain's on her arse." "But—"

"Your captain should" ve had the wit to be more specific," said Locke, "and she lost. You going to take her oath backer her?" The man grabbed Locke by the front of his tunic. The two of them scuffled briefly and Jean darted forward, but before the situation went to hell Ranee's sailor was hauled back, grudgingly but firmly, by his friends. "Who the hell are you, anyway?" he shouted. "Orrin Ravelle," said Locke. "Never fucking heard of you."

"I think you'll remember me, though." Locke dangled a small leather pouch in front of the man. "Got your purse, prickless." "You motherfu—" Locke gave the purse a hard toss backward, and it landed somewhere down among the hundred or so patrons watching the action on the balcony with eyes wide and mouths open.

"Oops," said Locke, "but I'm sure you can rely on all the upstanding folks down there to keep it safe for you."

"Enough!" Zamira reached down, grabbed Ranee by the collar and hoisted her to a sitting position. "Your captain called it and your captain lost. Is she your captain?" "Yes," said the man, scowling.

"Then keep her oath." Zamira dragged Ranee to the head of the stairs and knelt in front of her. "Not such a very regal bitch after all, eh, Chay?"

Ranee reared back to spit blood in Drakasha's face, but the older captain's slap was faster and the blood spewed out across the stairs.

"Two things," said Zamira. "First, I'm calling the council for tomorrow. I'll expect to see you there at the usual place and time. Nod your silly head." Ranee nodded, slowly.

"Second, I don't have brats. I have a daughter and a son. And if you ever forget that again, I'll carve your fucking bones into toys for them."

With that, she heaved Ranee down the stairs. By the time she landed in a heap at the bottom, her chagrined crew was hurrying after her, under the triumphant stares of Drakasha's party. "See you around… Orrin Ravelle," said the purseless sailor.

"Valterro," said Zamira sternly, "this was all business. Don't make it personal."

The man looked no happier, but he moved off with the rest of Ranee's crew.

"That bit about your children sounded very personal," whispered Jean.

"So I'm a hypocrite," muttered Drakasha. "You want to protest, you can take a drink Syrune-fashion." Zamira moved to the rail overlooking the main floor and raised her voice to a shout. "Zacorin! You hiding down there somewhere?"

"Hiding's the word, Drakasha," came a voice from behind the windows of the armoured bar. "War over yet?"

"If you" ve got a cask of anything that doesn't taste like pig sweat, send it up. And some meat. And Ranee's bill. Poor dear needs all the help she can get."

There was an outbreak of laughter across the floor. Ranee's crew, carrying her out by her arms and legs, didn't look even vaguely amused.

"So that's that," said Zamira, settling into the chair Ranee had just vacated. "Make yourselves comfortable. Welcome to the high table at the Tattered Crimson."

"Well," said Jean as he took a seat between Locke and Ezri, "did that go as you hoped?" "Oh yeah." She smirked at Drakasha. "Yeah, I'd say our flag is flown.""

8

They did their best to look relaxed and amused for the better part of an hour, helping themselves to the Crimson's mediocre dark ale and all the better liquors Ranee's crew had left behind. Grease-blanketed duck was the dish of the evening; most of them treated it as decoration, but Rask and Konar gradually brutalized it down to a pile of bones. "So what do we do now?" asked Locke.

"Word'll go out to all the usual vultures that we're back in," said Drakasha. "Less than a day or two and they'll be courting us. Liquor and rations will go first; always easiest to sell. Nautical spares and stores we keep for ourselves. As for the silks and finer things, those independent traders moored at the Hospital docks are our friends in that regard. They'll try to clean us out for fifteen to twenty per cent of market value. Good enough for us, then they haul it back across the sea and sell it at full price with innocent smiles on their faces." "What about the Messenger?"

"When she shows up, the Shopbreaker will pay us a visit. He'll offer us piss in a clay bowl and we'll talk him up to piss in a wooden jug. Then she's his problem. She's worth maybe six thousand solari with her rigging intact; I'll be lucky to take him for anything near two. His crew will sail her east and sell her to some eager merchant for about four, undercutting his competition and carving a fat profit at the same time."

"Hell," said Lieutenant Delmastro, "some of the ships on the Sea of Brass routes have been taken and resold three or four times."

"This Shipbreaker," said Locke, feeling a scheme in the birthing, "I take it the fact that his trade is also his name means he doesn't have any competitors?" "All dead," said Delmastro. "The ugly and publicly instructive way."

"Captain," said Locke, "how long will all of this take? It's nearly the end of the month, and—"

"I'm well aware of what day it is, Ravelle. It takes as long as it takes. Maybe three days, maybe seven or eight. While we're here everyone on the crew gets at least one chance at a day and night ashore, too." "I—"

"I haven't forgotten the matter you're concerned about," Drakasha said. "I'll bring it to the council tomorrow. After that, we'll see."

"Matter?" Delmastro looked genuinely confused. Locke had been half-expecting Jean to have told her by now, but apparently thed'r been spending their private time in a wiser and more diverting fashion.

"You'll find out tomorrow, Del. After all, you'll be at the council with me. No more on the subject, Ravelle."

"Right." Locke sipped beer and held up a finger. "Something else, then. Let me request a few things of you in private before this Ship-breaker comes calling. Maybe I can help you squeeze a higher price out of the fellow."

"He's not a fellow," said Drakasha. "He's as slippery as a pus-dipped turd and about as pleasant."

"So much the better. Think on Master Nera; at least let me make the attempt." "No promises," said Zamira. "I'll hear you, at least."

"Orchids," boomed a deep-voiced man as he appeared at the top of the stairs. "Captain Drakasha! You know they're still pulling Ranee's teeth out of the walls downstairs?"

"Ranee fell ill with a sudden bout of discourtesy," said Zamira. "Then she just fell. Hello, Captain Rodanov."

Rodanov was one of the largest men Locke had ever seen; he must have been just shy of seven feet tall. He was about Zamira's age, and somewhat round in the belly. But his long, muscle-corded arms looked as though thed'r be about right for strangling bears, and the fact that he didn't deign to carry a weapon said much. His face was long and heavy-jawed, his pale hair receding, and his eyes were bright with the satisfied humour of a man who feels himself equal to the world. Locke had seen his type before, among the better garristas of Camorr, but none so towering; even Big Konar could only outdo him in girth.

Incongruously, his huge hands were wrapped around a pair of delicate wine bottles made of sapphire-coloured glass with silver ribbons below their corks. "I took a hundred bottles of last year's Lashani Blue out of a galleon a few months ago. I saved a few because I know you have a taste for it. Welcome back."

"Welcome to the table, Captain." At Drakasha's gesture, Ezri, Jean, Locke and Konar shuffled one chair to the left, leaving the chair next to Zamira open. Jaffrim settled into it and passed her the wine bottles. When she offered her right hand he kissed it, then stuck out his tongue.

"Mmm," he said, "I always wondered what Chavon would taste like." He helped himself to a discarded cup as Zamira laughed. "Who" s closest to the ale cask?" "Allow me," said Locke.

"Most of you I" ve met," said Rodanov. "Rask, of course, I'm shocked as hell you're still alive. Dantierre, Konar, good to see you. Malakasti, love, what's Zamira got that I haven't? Wait, I'm not sure I want to know. And you." He slipped an arm around Lieutenant Delmastro and gave her a squeeze. "I didn't know Zamira still let children run free on deck. When are you going to reach your growth?"

"I grew in all the right directions." She grinned and feigned a punch to his stomach. "You know, the only reason people think your ship's a three-master is because you're always standing on the quarterdeck."

"If I take my breeches off," said Rodanov, "it suddenly looks as though she's got four."

"We might believe that if we hadn't seen enough naked Vadrans to know better," said Drakasha.

"Well, Vm no shame to the old country," said Rodanov as Locke passed him a cup full of beer. "And I see you" ve been picking up new faces."

"Here and there. Orrin Ravelle, Jerome Valora. This is Jaffrim Rodanov, captain of the Dread Sovereign."

"Your health and good fortune," said Rodanov, raising his cup. "May your foes be unarmed and your ale unspoiled."

"Foolish merchants and fine winds to chase them on," said Zamira, raising one of the wine bottles he'd given her. "Did you have a good sweep this time out?"

"Holds are fit to bust," said Drakasha. "And we pulled in a little brig, about a ninety-footer. Ought to be here by now, actually." "That the Red Messenger}" "How" d you—"

"Strozzi came in just yesterday. Said he swooped down on a brig with bad legs and was about to pluck her when he found one of your prize crews waving at him. This was about sixty miles north of Trader's Gate, just off the Burning Reach. Hell, they might be crawling through Trader's Gate as we speak." "More power to them, then. We came in through the Parlour."

"Not good," said Rodanov, looking less than pleased for the first time since he'd come up. "Heard some strange things about the Parlour lately. His Eminence the Fat Bastard—" "Shopbreaker," Konar whispered to Locke

"— sent a lugger east last month and says it got lost in a storm. But I hear from reliable lips that it never made it out of the Parlour."

"I thought speed would be the greater virtue coming in," said Drakasha, "but next time back, I'll use the Gate if it takes a week. You can pass that around."

"It'll be my advice, too. Speaking of which, I hear you want to call the council tomorrow."

"There's five of us in town. I" ve got… curious business from Tal Verrar. And I want a closed meeting."

"One captain, one first," said Rodanov. "Right. I'll pass the word to Strozzi and Colvard tomorrow. I take it Ranee already knows?" "Yes." "She might not be able to speak."

"She won't need to," said Drakasha. "I'm the one with the story to tell."

"So be it," said Rodanov. " "Let us speak behind our hands, lest our lips be read as the book of our designs, and let us find some place where only gods and rats may hear our words aloud." " Locke stared at Rodanov; that was Lucarno, from— "The Assassins Wedding," said Delmastro.

"Yeah, easy," said Rodanov with a grin. "Nothing more difficult sprang to mind."

"What a curiously theatrical bent you Brass Sea reavers seem to have," said Jean. "I know Ezri has a taste—"

"I only quote Lucarno for her," said Rodanov. "I myself hate the bastard. Mawkish sentiment, obvious self-satisfaction and so many little puns about fucking so all the Therin Throne's best-dressed twits could feel naughty in public. Meanwhile the Bondsmagi and my ancestors rolled dice to see who got to burn the Empire down first." "Jerome and I are both very fond of Lucarno," said Delmastro.

"And that is because you don't know any better," said Rodanov. "Because the plays of the early Throne poets are kept in vaults by pinheads while Lucarno's merest specks of vomit are exalted by anyone with coins to waste on scribes and bindery. His plays aren't preserved, they're perpetrated. Mercallor Mentezzo—"

"Mentezzo's all right," said Jean. "His verse is fair, but he uses the chorus like a crutch and always throws the gods in at the end to solve everyone's problems—"

"Mentezzo and his contemporaries built Therin Throne drama from the Espadri model," said Rodanov, "invigorating dull temple rituals with relevant political themes. The limitations of their structure should be forgiven; by comparison, Lucarno had their entire body of work to build upon, and all he added to the mix was tawdry melodrama—"

"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 Bar-savi?" "How the hell could you possibly know that?"

"Might have… crossed paths with him a few times." Locke grinned. "Travelling in the east. Vicinity of Camorr."

"I heard rumours," 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 and see how badly our friend Banjital Vo wanted his silver."

9

Regal awoke 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 enquire 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 that 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 sabres. "Better clothes, you say?"

10

The Shopbreaker's agents, primed by rumours from the night before, were swift to spot the new sail in Prodigal Bay. At the fifth hour of the afternoon, an ornate barge rowed by banks of slaves pulled alongside the Red Messenger.

Drakasha waited to receive the occupants of the barge with Delma-stro, Gwillem and two dozen armed crewfolk. First up the side was a squad of guards, men and women sweating beneath armour of boiled leather and chain. Once thed'r swept the deck with their eyes, a team of slaves leapt aboard and rigged lines to haul a hanging chair from barge to ship. Sweating furiously, they strained to heave this chair and its occupant up to the entry port.

The Shopbreaker was exactly as Drakasha remembered: an old, paper-skinned Therm so distended with fat that it looked as though he'd popped his seams, and his viscous flesh was pouring out into the world around him. His jowls ended somewhere below the middle of his neck, his fingers were like burst sausages and his wattles had so little firmament behind them that they quivered when he blinked. He managed to rise from his chair, with the help of a slave at either hand, but he didn't look remotely comfortable until another slave produced a wide lacquered shelf, a sort of portable table. This was set before him, and he heaved his massive belly atop it with a groan of relief.

"A limping brig," he said to no one in particular. "One t" gallant mast gone and the other one fit for firewood. Somewhat aged. A lady whose fading charms are ill-concealed by recent layers of paint and gilt. Oh. Forgive me, Zamira. I did not see you standing there."

"Whereas I felt the ship heel over the instant you came aboard," said Drakasha. "She was tough enough to pull through a summer's-end storm even in the hands of an incompetent. Her lines are clean, topgallant masts are cheap and she's sweeter by far than most of the heaps you haul to the east."

"Heaps procured for me by captains like yourself. Now, I'll want to peek under her breeches and see if she has any quim left to speak of. Then we can discuss the size of the favour I'll be doing you." "Pose all you like, old man. I'll have a fair price for a fair ship."

"Fair she is," said Leocanto Kosta (as Zamira had come to think of him), choosing that moment to emerge from his lurking place within the companionway. The OrchicFs little store of fine clothing had furnished him with a veneer of wealth. His mustard-brown coat had cloth-of-silver cuffs, his tunic was unstained silk, his breeches were passable and his shoes were polished. They were also large enough for a man of Jerome's build, but Kosta had stuffed them with rags to help them fit. One couldn't have everything.

A borrowed rapier hung from his belt, and several of Zamira's rings gleamed on his fingers. Behind him came Jerome, dressed as the Dutiful Manservant of Common Demeanour, carrying three heavy leather satchels over his shoulder. The speed with which thed'r assumed these roles led Zamira to infer thed'r used them elsewhere. "M" lord," said Drakasha, "have you finished your inspection?"

"I have. And, as I said, fair. Not excellent, but hardly a death trap. I can see fifteen years in her, with a bit of luck."

"Who the fuck might you be?" The Shopbreaker regarded Kosta with eyes like a bird suddenly confronted by a rival's beak just as it's about to seize a worm. "Tavrin Callas," said Kosta. "Lashain." "A peer?" asked the Shopbreaker. "Of the Third. You don't need to use my title." "Nor will I. Why are you sniffing around this ship?"

"Your skull must be softer than your belly. I'm angling to buy her from Captain Drakasha." "/ am the one who buys ships in Prodigal Bay."

"By what, the writ of the gods? I'm in funds and that's all that signifies." "Your funds won't help you swim, boy—"

^Enough] said Drakasha. "Until one of you pays for it, this is my ship you're standing on." "You're very far from home, pup, and you cross me at your—"

"You want this ship, you pay full weight of metal for it." Drakasha seethed, her irritation genuine. The Shopbreaker was powerful and useful, but in a contest of sheer force any Brass Sea captain could crush him beneath their heel. Lack of competition led him to presume too much upon the patience of others. "If Lord Callas tenders the best offer, I'll take it from him. Are we through being foolish?" "I'm prepared to buy my ship," said Kosta.

"Now hold it, Captain," said Delmastro on cue. "We know the Ship-breaker can pay. But we've yet to see the lordship's coin."

"Del's right," said Drakasha. "We use letters of credit to wipe our arses down here, Lord Callas. You" d best have something heavy in those bags."

"Of course," said Kosta, snapping his fingers. Jerome stepped forward and dropped one satchel on the deck at Drakasha's feet. It landed with a jangling clink.

"Gwillem," she said, motioning him forward. He crouched over the satchel, unbound its clasps and revealed a pile of gold coins— in actuality, a combination of Zamira's ship's purse and the funds Leocanto and Jerome had brought to sea. Gwillem lifted one, held it up to the sunlight, scratched it and bit it. He nodded. "The real thing, Captain. Tal Verrar solari."

"Seven hundred in that bag," said Kosta, which was the cue for Jerome to throw the second one down on the deck beside it. "Seven hundred more."

Gwillem unclasped the second satchel, allowing the Shopbreaker to see that it, too, was apparently brimming with gold. At least it was for five or six layers of solari above a silk pocket filled with silvers and coppers. The third satchel was as much a sham, but Zamira hoped that Kosta wouldn't have to make his point again.

"And from that," said Leocanto, "I'll give you one thousand to commence."

"The edges of his coins could be shaved," said the Shopbreaker. "This is intolerable, Drakasha. Bring scales from your ship, and I'll have mine fetched up."

"These coins are pristine," said Kosta, gritting his teeth. "Every last one. I know you'll check them, Captain, and I know what my life would be worth if you found any of them debased." "But—"

"Your deep concern for my welfare is noted, Shopbreaker," said Drakasha, "but Lord Callas is entirely correct and I judge him sincere. He offers a thousand. Do you wish to better that?" "Legs are open, old man," said Leocanto. "Can you really get it up?" "One thousand and ten," said the Shipbreaker.

"Eleven hundred] said Kosta. "Gods, I feel like I'm playing cards with my stablehands." "Eleven hundred," wheezed the Shipbreaker, "and fifty." "Twelve hundred." "I have yet even to examine her timbers—"

"Then you should have hauled yourself across the bay faster. Twelve hundred." "Thirteen!"

"That's the spirit," said Kosta. "Pretend you can keep up with me. Fourteen hundred."

"Fifteen," said the Shipbreaker. T warn you, Callas, if you push this price higher there will be consequences."

"Poor old lardbucket, forced to make do with a merely ridiculous profit rather than an obscene one. Sixteen hundred." "Where did you come from, Callas?" "Booked passage on an independent trader." "Which one?"

"None of your gods-damned business. I'm good for sixteen. What are—"

"Eighteen," hissed the Shipbreaker. "Are you running out of purses, you Lashani pretender?"

"Nineteen," said Kosta, injecting a note of concern into his voice for the first time. "Two thousand solari."

Leocanto made a show of conferring briefly with Jerome. He looked down at his feet, muttered, "Fuck you, old man," and gestured for Jerome to collect the satchels from the deck.

"To the Shipbreaker," said Zamira, suppressing a huge smile. "For two thousand."

"Ha!" The Shipbreaker's face became contorted with triumph that looked nearly painful. T could buy ten of you on a whim, whelp. If I ever felt the need to scabbard my cock in something foreign and useless."

"Well, you won," said Leocanto. "Congratulations. I'm ever so chagrined."

"You should be," said the Shipbreaker, "since you're suddenly standing on my ship. Now I'd like to hear what you'll bid to keep me from having you spitted over a fire—"

"Shipbreaker," said Drakasha, "until I see two thousand solari in my hands, like all hells is this your ship."

"Ah," said the old man. "A technicality." He clapped his hands and his slaves sent the hoist-chair back to the barge, presumably to be loaded with gold.

"Captain Drakasha," said Kosta, "thank you for your indulgence, but I know when it's time to withdraw—"

"Del," said Drakasha, "show Lord Callas and his man to one of our boats. Lord Callas, you're welcome to stay for dinner in my cabin. After that we can… send you back where you belong."

"Indebted to you, Captain." Kosta bowed more deeply than strictly necessary, and then vanished through the entry port with Delmastro and Jerome.

"Gut the wet-eared little prick," said the Shipbreaker, loudly. "Keep his money."

"I'm content with yours," said Zamira. "Besides — I'm rather taken with the idea of having a genuine Lashani baron convinced that he owes me his life."

The Shipbreaker's slaves transferred bag after bag of coins to the deck of the Messenger, silver and gold, until the agreed-upon price was heaped at Zamira's feet. Gwillem would count it all at leisure, of course, but Zamira felt no anxiety about fraud or debasing. The sacks would contain exactly what they were supposed to, by the logic "Tavrin Callas" had espoused a few minutes earlier. The Shipbreaker kept a dozen well-equipped mercenaries at his fortified estate on the edge of town, but if he cheated a captain he'd have pirates after him in platoons, and his running days were a distant memory.

Drakasha left the Messenger in the hands of the Shipbreaker's guards and slaves and was back aboard the Orchid within half an hour, feeling the contentment that always came with seeing a prize sold off. One less complication to plan around — now her entire crew would be back on one hull, shares would be made, the ship's purse substantially enriched. The injured ex-Messengers who hadn't been with them for the Kingfisher sacking presented a slight problem, but to a man thed'r opted for the temporary indignity of the scrub watch, if the alternative was to be left in Prodigal in ill health.

"Ravelle, Valora," she said, finding the pair of them sitting in the undercastle shade, talking and grinning along with Del and a dozen crewfolk. "That went better than I expected."

"Seven or eight hundred more than what we might have had otherwise," said Gwillem with surprise. "That much more fat to marble everyone's cut," said Valora.

"Until the bastard spends some money to check up on the independent traders," said Del, one eyebrow raised in mingled admiration and disbelief. "When he discovers that nobody's brought any Lashani noble anywhere near Prodigal recently—"

"Of course he'll figure out what happened, sooner or later." Kosta waved a hand dismissively. "That's the beauty of it. That sort of uptight, self-loving, threat-making little tyrant… well, you can play "em like a piece of music. Never in a thousand years would he run around letting anyone else know that you suckered him in broad daylight with such a simple trick. And with the profit margin he scrapes out of every ship he takes from you, there's just no way in hell he'll hit back with anything but fussy words."

"He's got no power to push, if pushing's what comes to his mind," said Zamira. "I call the deed well done. Doesn't mean you can lounge around in those fancy clothes all evening, though. Get them stowed again." "Of course… Captain."

"And whether or not the Shopbreaker bites his tongue, I think it best to keep you two out of sight for the rest of our time here. You're both confined to the ship." "What? But—"

"I believe," said Drakasha in an amused but firm tone of voice, "that it might not be wise to let a pair such as you off the leash too frequently. I'll give you a little something extra from the ship's purse for your trouble."

"Oh, fair enough." Kosta began removing the more delicate components of his fine costume. "I suppose I" ve no particular urge to get my throat slit in an alley, anyway."

"Wise lad." Zamira turned to Delmastro. "Del, let's get a list together for tonight's Merry Watch. They can go ashore with us when we head in for the council. Let's say… half the ship's company. Make it fair."

"Right," said Del. "And until we come back from that meeting, they can wait in the boats, conveniently watching for trouble, can't they?" "Exactly," said Zamira. "Same as all the other crews, I expect."

"Captain," Del whispered almost into Zamira's ear, "what the hell is this meeting about?"

"Bad business, Ezri." She glanced at Leocanto and Jerome, smiling and joking with one another, oblivious to her scrutiny. "Bad if it's true. Bad if it's not."

She put an arm around Ezri's shoulder; this young woman who'd turned her back on life as a pampered Nicoran aristocrat, who'd risen from scrub watch to first mate, who'd nearly been killed a dozen times in half that many years to keep Zamira's precious Orchid afloat. "Some of the things you'll hear tonight concern Valora. I can't guess what you two have spoken of in private… in those rare interludes where you two spend your private moments speaking—" Ezri thrust out her chin, smiled, and didn't deign to blush. "-but what I have to say may not please you."

"If there's anything to be settled between us," said Ezri softly, "I trust him to settle it. And I'm not afraid to hear anything."

"My Ezri," said Zamira. "Well then, let's get dressed to go and meet the relations. Armour and sabres. Oil your scabbards and whet your knives. We might need the tools to make some parting arguments if the conversation goes poorly."

1

A mile of lonely beach separates Port Prodigal from the ruins of its fallen stone sentinel: Castana Voressa, Fort Glorious.

Built to dominate the northern side of the bay serving Port Glorious before a shift in the fortunes of the Ghostwinds brought an equivalent change to the city's name, the fort would not now suffice to ward off an attack with vulgar language, let alone the blades and arrows of a hostile force.

To say that it was constructed cheaply would be an injustice to skinflint stonemasons; several whole shiploads of Verrari granite blocks were diverted into the home-building trade for wine money by bored officials far from home. Grand plans for walls and towers became grand plans for a wall, and finally modest plans for a smaller wall with barracks, and as a capstone to the entire affair the garrison of soldiers intended for those barracks was lost in transit to a summer's-end storm.

The only useful remnant of the fort is a circular stone pavilion about fifty yards offshore, linked to the main ruins by a wide stone causeway. This was intended to be a platform for catapults, but none ever came. Nowadays, when the pirate captains of Port Prodigal call a council to discuss their affairs, this pavilion is always the place and dusk is always the time. Here the captains do business in private, standing on the stones of a Verrari empire that never was, atop the frustrated ambitions of a city-state that had nonetheless frustrated their own ambitions seven years before.

2

It began as every such meeting Zamira could remember: under the purple-red sky of sunset, with lanterns set out atop the old stones, with the humid air thick as an animal's breath and the biting insects out in force.

There was no wine, no food and no sitting when the council of captains was called. Sitting only made people more inclined to waste time. Discomfort stripped sentiment from everyone's words and brought them to the heart of their problems with haste.

To Zamira's surprise, she and Ezri were the last to arrive. Zamira glanced around at her fellow captains, nodding cordially as she eyed them all in turn.

First there was Rodanov, armed now, with his first mate Ydrena Koros, a trim blonde woman only slightly taller than Ezri. She had the poise of a professional duellist and a reputation with the wide-bladed Jereshti scimitar.

Beside them stood Pierro Strozzi, an amiable bald fellow pushing fifty, waited on by his lieutenant, called Ear-Taker Jack for what he liked to slice from the heads of his fallen foes. It was said that he tanned them and sewed them into elaborate necklaces, which he kept locked in his cabin.

Ranee was there, with Valterro at her shoulder as usual. The right side of Ranee's jaw was several wince-inducing shades of black and green, but she was standing on her own two feet and at least had the courtesy not to glare at Zamira when she thought Zamira was watching.

Last but not least was Jacquelaine Colvard, the so-called "Old Woman of the Ghostwinds", still elegant in her mid-sixties, if grey-haired and sun-scorched like old leather. Her current protege, and therefore lover, was Maressa Vicente, whose fighting and sailing qualities were not yet generally known. The young woman certainly looked capable enough.

Until one of them walked away, then, they were effectively sealed off here from the rest of the world. Parties from their crews, about half a dozen from each ship, mingled uneasily at the end of the causeway. No one else would be permitted to walk upon it until they finished. So, Zamira thought, how will we do this?

"Zamira," said Rodanov, "you're the one who called the council. Let's hear what's on your mind." Straight to the action, then.

"Not so much on my mind, Jaffrirn, as on all of our heads. I have evidence that the Archon of Tal Verrar may have inconvenient plans for us once again."

"Once again?" Rodanov made fists of his huge hands. "It was Bonaire who had the inconvenient plans, Zamira; we should have expected Stragos to do what any one of us would have done in his place—"

"I haven't forgotten so much as a day of that war, Jaffrim." Zamira felt her hackles rise despite her determination to be patient. "You know very well that I" ve come to call it a mistake."

"The Lost Cause," snorted Rodanov. "More like the Dumb Fucking Idea. Would that you" d seen it for folly at the time!"

"Would that you" d done more than talk at the time," said Strozzi mildly. "Talked and sailed away when the Archon's fleet darkened the horizon."

"I never joined your damned Armada, Pierro. I offered to try to draw some of his ships off, and that much I did. Without my help you" d have lost the weather gauge sooner and been flanked from the north. Chavon and I would be the only captains standing here—"

"Stand off," shouted Zamira. "I called the council, and I have more to tell. I didn't bring us here to salt old wounds." "Speak on," said Strozzi.

"A month ago a brig left Tal Verrar. Her captain stole her from the Sword Marina."

There was a general outburst of muttering and head-shaking at that. Zamira smiled before continuing: "For crew, he sneaked into the Windward Rock and emptied a vault full of prisoners. His intention, and theirs, was to sail south and join us in Port Prodigal. To fly the red flag."

"Who could steal one of the Archon's ships from a guarded harbour?" Rodanov spoke as if he only half-believed the possibility. "I'd like to meet him." "You have," said Zamira. "His name is Orrin Ravelle."

Valterro, previously silent behind Captain Ranee, sputtered, "That fucking little—"

"Quiet," said Zamira. "Lost your purse last night, didn't you? Ravelle has fast hands. Fast hands, a quick mind, a talent for command and a way with a blade. He earned his way onto my crew by killing four Jeremite Redeemers by himself." Zamira felt vaguely amused to be talking Kosta up with the same half-truths he'd worked so hard to disabuse her of. "Yet you said he had his own ship," said Rodanov.

"Yes. The Red Messenger, sold off to the Shipbreaker just this afternoon. Pierro, you saw it off the Burning Reach a few days ago, didn't you?" "Indeed."

"There I was, going about my business, innocently scooping up prizes here and there on the Sea of Brass," said Zamira, "when I happened upon Ravelle's Messenger. Interrupted his plans, to say the least. I poked holes in his story until I squeezed it all out of him, more or less."

"What story is that?" Ranee sounded as though she had a collection of small rocks in her mouth, but she made herself understood.

"Think about it, Ranee. Who is Ravelle? One man — a thief, clearly. Trained to do many unusual things. But could one man sail a brig out of the gated harbours in the Sword Marina? Could one man break into the Windward Rock, overcome every guard there, free an entire vaultful of prisoners and pack them off in his brig, conveniently stolen the very same night?" "Uh," said Ranee, "Well, possibly—"

"He didn't do it alone." Colvard spoke for the first time, quietly, but her voice drew the eyes of everyone on the pavilion. "Stragos must have let him escape."

"Precisely," said Zamira. "Stragos let him escape. Stragos gave him a crew of prisoners eager for any sort of freedom. Stragos gave him a ship. And he did all this knowing full well that Ravelle would sail south. Come down to join us in our trade."

"He wanted an agent among us," said Strozzi, uncharacteristically excited.

"Yes. More than that." Zamira gazed around the circle of pirates, ensuring that she had their undivided attention before she continued. "He has an agent among us. Aboard my ship. Orrin Ravelle and his companion Jerome Valora are currently in the Archon's service."

Ezri whipped her head around to stare at Zamira, mouth open. Zamira squeezed her arm unobtrusively. "Kill them," said Colvard.

"The situation is more complicated and more grave than that," said Zamira.

"Grave indeed, for these two men you speak of. I find it best to make corpses of complications."

"Had I discovered their deceit on my own, it would already be done. But Ravelle is the one who confessed these things to me. He and Valora are, by his claim, entirely unwilling agents. Stragos gave them a latent poison, to which he alone supposedly holds the antidote. Another month will bring them due for their next dose."

"Death would be a favour, then," mumbled Ranee. "That bastard will never let them be anything but puppets—"

Rodanov waved for her to pipe down. "What, to hear it from Ravelle's lips, was their mission? To spy on us, I presume?"

"No, Jaffrim." Zamira put her hands behind her back and began to slowly pace the centre of the pavilion. "Stragos wants us to do him the favour of flying the red flag in sight of Tal Verrar again." "That makes no sense," said Strozzi. "It does when you consider the Archon's needs," said Colvard. "How so?" Ranee and Strozzi spoke in unison.

"I hear that things are brittle between the Archon and the Priori," said Colvard. "If something were to come along and put a fright into the fine citizens of Tal Verrar, their regard for the army and navy would rise."

"Stragos needs a foe from outside Tal Verrar," said Zamira. "He needs it with all haste, and he needs to be assured that his forces can kick it around with a will." She spread her arms wide, toward her fellow captains and their mates. "We might as well be painted like archery butts." "There's no profit," said Strozzi, "in bringing a fight to us—"

"For those that take their profit in coin, you're right. But for Stragos, it means everything. He gambled a ship, a crew of prisoners and his very reputation on Ravelle's mission. You don't think he's serious? He made a laughing stock of himself by allowing a "pirate" to escape from his secure harbours, all so he could wait to redeem himself by crushing us later." Zamira brought her fists together. "That was Ravelle's task — convince us, trick us, He to us, bribe us. And if we couldn't be made to serve, his plan was to do it himself, in the Messenger."

"Then our course is obvious," said Rodanov. "We don't give Stragos a damn thing. We don't dance around his noose. We keep five hundred miles between ourselves and Tal Verrar, as we have since the war. If need be, we play meek for a few months." He reached over and gave Strozzi's paunch a hearty slap. "We live off our fat."

"If we do that much," said Ydrena Koros, "begging your pardon, Captain. This evidence of yours, Captain Drakasha — the word of these two men sounds thinner than—"

"Not just their word," said Zamira, "Think, Koros. They had the Red Messenger. Its crew, the survivors of which are now my crew, did indeed come from the Windward Rock. The Archon sent them, all right."

"I concur," said Colvard, "though I also agree with Jaffrim that standing down from provocation is the wisest—"

"Would be wisest," interrupted Zamira, "if Stragos was doing this on a whim. But he's not, is he? He's in the fight of his life. His very position is at stake. He needs us."

She paced the centre of the pavilion again, reminded of the "arguments" she'd put forth over the years in her pretend turns as a magistrate for initiation rituals. Were these theatrics any more convincing? She hoped to the gods they were.

"If we tip Ravelle and Valora over the side and ignore them," she said, "or shy away from Tal Verrar, Stragos will try something else. Some other scheme to trick us into a fight, or to convince his people that we're bringing one. Only next time, the gods may not see fit to allow the instruments of his design to fall into our hands. We'll be blind."

"There's more hypothesis here," said Rodanov, "than just about anything I ever heard at the Collegium."

"The Red Messenger and the prisoners do indicate that Stragos took a gamble," said Colvard. "That he took a gamble indicates that he can't move openly or with confidence. Knowing what we do of the situation in Tal Verrar… I'd say this threat is real. If Stragos requires an enemy, we are the only suitor at this dance that fits his need. What else can he do? Pick a fight with Balinel? Camorr? Lashain? Karthain? I hardly think so."

"What would you have us do, Zamira?" Rodanov folded his arms and scowled. "We possess the means to strike back at the Archon."

"We can't fight the Verrari navy," said Rodanov. "Nor can we storm the damn city, summon lighting from the sky or ask the gods to politely dispose of Stragos for us. So by what means may we "strike back"? Wound his feelings with vicious letters?"

"Ravelle and Valora are expected to report directly to him to receive their antidote." "They have access to him," said Colvard. "An assassination!" "For which they suffer the blame, assuming they live," mused Strozzi.

"Good for them," said Rodanov. "And what, you wish our consent to take them back to Tal Verrar and let them loose? By all means let fly. I'd be happy to lend them a pair of knives." "There is, from the perspective of Ravelle and Valora, only one minor complication: that they would prefer to acquire a permanent antidote and then do away with Stragos." "Alas," said Ranee, "we so rarely realize our desires in life—"

"Tell them that we have an antidote," said Colvard. "Convince them that we have the means to free them from their condition. Then set them loose upon the Archon… whether they survive the assassination or not will be of no consequence."

Ezri opened her mouth to disagree, and Zamira fixed her with the most withering glare in her long-practised arsenal.

"Marvellously devious," said Zamira, when she was certain that Ezri would mind herself, "but too convenient. In their position, would you ever believe such a claim?"

"My skull is beginning to spin," said Strozzi. "What the hell do you wish to do, Zamira?"

"I wish," she said, enunciating each word very carefully, "for none of you to be alarmed if I should find it necessary to raise a bit of ruckus in the immediate vicinity of Tal Verrar."

"And thereby call down our destruction," shouted Rodanov. "Do you want to see Port Prodigal sacked like Montierre? Do you want to see us scattered halfway across the world, and our unguarded trade routes filled with angry Verrari warships?" "If I do anything," said Zamira, "discretion would be—"

"Impossible," growled Rodanov. "This will finish the job Stragos began when he crushed the Free Armada. This will destroy our way of fife!"

"Or preserve it." Zamira put her hands on her hips. "If Stragos is determined to push us, he will push us whether we would dance to his tune or no. I have aboard my ship our means, our only means, of taking the fight to him. If Stragos is knocked aside, the Archonate falls with him. And if the Priori rule Tal Verrar, we can loot this sea at our own merry pace until the day we die."

"Why," said Strozzi, "would you want to play along with the Archon's design, even with… discretion?"

"Ravelle and Valora aren't saints," said Zamira. "They" re not looking to throw their fives away for our benefit. They want to live, and to do that they need time. If Stragos believes they're hard at work on his behalf, he'll grant them the weeks or months necessary to find a solution. And in the meantime, he's likely to stay his other plans."

"Those weeks and months may instead be time enough for him to rouse his city," said Rodanov.

"You must trust me to be delicate," said Zamira. "As brother and sister captains, that's what I'm asking in the end. No matter what you hear from Tal Verrar — trust my judgement." "A significant request," said Colvard. "You ask no aid from any of us?"

"I can't think of anything that would be more counterproductive than for all of us to show up one morning off Tal Verrar, can you? The Archon would have his war in about ten minutes. So leave this task to me. A risk to my ship alone."

"A risk to us all," said Rodanov. "You're asking us to put our fates, and that of Port Prodigal, in your hands. Without any oversight."

"How has it been otherwise, these past seven years?" She stared around the circle at each captain in turn. "Each of us has always been at the mercy of the others. Any one of us could have raided too far north, attacked a ship carrying someone's royal cousin, murdered too many sailors or simply grown too greedy to ignore. We've been in peril all the way. I'm merely doing you the courtesy of pointing it out in advance for once." "And if you fail?" asked Ranee.

"If I fail," said Zamira, "there'll be no penalty for you to levy. I'll already be dead."

"Our oaths of non-interference," said Colvard. "That's whatyou want, isn't it? A promise to keep our swords in their scabbards while you throw the most important rule of our… association out through your stern window."

"In lieu of any better alternatives," said Zamira, "yes. That's exactly what I'm asking for."

"And if we say no?" Rodanov spoke quietly. "If we, four against one, forbid this?"

"Then we come to a line that we all fear to cross," said Zamira, matching his stare.

"/ won't forbid it," said Ranee. "I'll vow to keep my hands off you, Zamira. If you sweat for my gain, so much the better. And if you die in the process, I'll mourn you not."

"I'll give my oath as well," said Colvard. "Zamira" s right. Our collective safety at any given time depends on whichever one of us is the bloody craziest. If there's a chance to kick Maxilan off his pedestal, I pray for your success."

"Obviously Zamira Drakasha votes with Zamira Drakasha," Zamira said, turning her gaze to Rodanov and Strozzi.

"I don't like any of this," said Strozzi. "But if things go to shit, no ship afloat on this sea can run like my Osprey." He smiled and cracked his knuckles. "What the hell. You wave your skirt at the Archon and see if he's up for a fondle. I won't be anywhere near it."

"It appears," said Rodanov once all eyes had turned to him, "that I have the opportunity to be … unsociable." He sighed and rubbed his forehead. "I don't think any of this is wise — but if I may take your promise of discretion to be as binding as my oath of non-interference… very well. Go spring this insane scheme."

"Thank you," said Zamira, feeling a warm flush of relief from head to toe. "Wasn't that easier than cutting one another to pieces?"

"This needs to stay between us," said Colvard. "I don't ask for an oath, I expect it. Stragos may have other eyes and ears in Prodigal. If this gets out to anyone not standing here, the time we've spent at this meeting — not to mention Zamira's mission — will be an utter waste." "Right," said Strozzi. "Silence. All gods as our witness." "All gods as our witness," the others echoed. "Will you leave immediately?" asked Colvard.

"My crew needs a night ashore. I can't ask them back out without that much. I'll send them in halves, sell off the rest of my swag as fast as I can. Clear the harbour in two or three days." "Three weeks to Tal Verrar," said Rodanov.

"Right," said Zamira. "No point in any of this if our lads drop dead en route. I intend to be hasty." She stepped up to Rodanov, put one hand on his right check and stood on her toes to kiss his left. "Jaffrim, have I ever let you down?"

"Never since the war," said Rodanov. "Ah, shit. Even that was a poor thing to say. Don't put me on the spot like this, Zamira. Just… don't fuck this up." "Hey," said Colvard, "how can I get some of that attention?"

"I'm feeling generous, but keep your hands to yourself if you prefer to keep them attached." She smiled, kissed Colvard in the middle of her wrinkled forehead and gave the old woman a hug. Gingerly, because it took pains to accommodate all the swords and daggers the two of them were wearing. Always thus, thought Zamira. Always thus in this life.

3

Utgar was the one waiting at the entry port to offer a hand when Zamira and Ezri went back up the side of the Poison Orchid. It was half-past the tenth hour of the evening. "Welcome back, Captain. How you be?"

"I" ve spent the day arguing with the Shipbreaker and the council of captains," Zamira muttered. "I require my children and I require a drink. Ezri—" "Yes?" "You, Ravelle, Valora. My cabin, immediately."

Once in her cabin, Zamira threw her coat, sabres, Elderglass vest and hat haphazardly onto her hammock. She settled onto her favourite chair with a groan and welcomed Paolo and Cosetta onto her lap. She lost herself in the familiar smell of their curly dark hair, and gazed with absolute satisfaction at their little fingers as she caught them in her own rough hands. Cosetta" s, still so tiny and uncertain… Paolo" s, growing longer and more dextrous by the week. Gods, they were growing too fast, too fast.

Their familiar chatter calmed her to the marrow; apparently, Paolo had spent the afternoon fighting monsters that lived in one of her sea-chests, while Cosetta now had plans to grow up to be King of the Seven Marrows. Zamira briefly considered explaining the difference between a king and a queen, and deemed it not worth the effort; contradicting Cos would only lead to days of circular argument.

"Be king! Seven Marers!" the little girl said, and Zamira nodded solemnly.

"Remember your poor family when you come into your kingdom, darling."

The door opened and Ezri appeared with Kosta and Valora… or should that be de Ferra? Damn these layered aliases.

"Lock the door," said Zamira. "Paolo, fetch Mummy four glasses. Ezri, can you do the business on one of those bottles of Lashani Blue? They" re right behind you."

Paolo, overawed at his responsibility, set four small tumblers out on the lacquered table atop the sea-chests. Kosta and de Ferra found seats on floor-cushions, and Ezri made quick work of the waxed cork sealing the bottle. The smell of fresh lemons pervaded the cabin, and Ezri filled each tumbler to the brim with wine the colour of the ocean depths.

"Alas, I'm bereft of toasts," said Zamira. "Sometimes one merely needs a drink. Have at it." Holding Cos with her left arm, Zamira downed her wine in one go, relishing the mingled tastes of spice and citrus, feeling the prickles of icy heat slide down her throat. "Want," said Cosetta. "This is a Mummy drink, Cos, and you wouldn't like its taste." "Want!"

"I said— Oh, very well. Can't fear the fire if you don't scald your fingertips." She poured the merest dash of the blue wine into her tumbler and handed it carefully to Cos. The girl took it up with an expression of the utmost solemnity, tipped its contents back into her mouth and then dropped it on the tabletop with a clatter. "Like PISS," she hollered, shaking her head.

"There are some drawbacks," said Zamira as she caught the tumbler before it went over the edge, "to raising children among sailors. But then I myself am no doubt making the largest contribution to her vocabulary."

"PIIIISSSSS," yelled Cosetta, giggling and immensely pleased with herself. Zamira shushed her.

"I have a toast," said Kosta, smirking and raising his glass. "To clear perception. I have just now, after all these weeks, realized who the real captain of this vessel is."

De Ferra chuckled and clinked tumblers with him. Ezri, however, left her wine untouched on the table before her and stared down at her hands. Zamira resolved to make this quick; Ezri clearly needed to be alone with Jerome.

"It's like this, Ravelle," said Zamira. "I didn't know I'd be arguing for your plan until I found myself doing so." "So you're taking us—"

"Back to Tal Verrar. Yes." She poured herself another tumbler of wine and took a more conservative sip. "I" ve convinced the council not to panic if stories come down from the north concerning the mischief we're about to work." "Thank you, Captain. I—"

"Don't thank me with words, Ravelle." Zamira sipped her wine again and set the tumbler down. "Thank me by keeping your side of the bargain. Find a way to kill Maxilan Stragos." "Yes."

"Let me make something else clear." Zamira carefully turned Cosetta in her arms so that the little girl was looking out across the table, straight at Kosta. "Everyone aboard this ship will be risking their life to give you your chance at this scheme. Every single person." "I… I understand."

"If time passes, and we can't find a solution for what Stragos has done to you… well, your access to him can't last for ever. I'll do everything in my power to help you before it comes to that. But if there's no other alternative, if time runs out and the only way you can take him down is to sacrifice yourself — I won't expect to see you again, do you understand?"

"If it comes to that," said Kosta, "I'll drag him to the judgement of the gods with my bare hands. We'll go together." "Gods," said Cosetta. "Bare hands!"

"Piss!" shouted Kosta, hoisting his tumbler toward Cosetta, who nearly came apart at the joints with the resulting fit of giggles.

"Thank you, Ravelle, for this gift of a daughter who will now be up all night repeating that word—" "Sorry, Captain. So, when do we leave?"

"Half the crew goes ashore tonight, and the other half tomorrow. We'll be scraping them up in heaps the day after, those that want to stay with us. Hopefully we can be rid of our swag tomorrow. So… two days. Two and a half, maybe. Then we'll see how the Orchid flies." "Thanks, Captain."

"And that's all," Zamira said. "My children are up too late, and I intend to claim the privilege of snoring as loudly as I wish once you're all out of my cabin."

Kosta was the first to take the hint, draining his glass and leaping to his feet. De Ferra followed and was about to leave when Ezri spoke in a quiet voice: "Jerome. May I see you in my cabin? Just for a few minutes?"

"A few minutes?" De Ferra grinned. "Tsk, Ezri, when did you become such a pessimist?"

"Now," she said, wiping the smile from his face. Chagrined, he helped her to her feet.

A moment later, the door the her cabin clicked shut, leaving Zamira alone with her family in one of the quiet interludes that were so damnably rare. For a few brief moments every night, she could imagine that her ship was travelling neither to nor from danger, and she could imagine herself more mother than captain, alone with the ordinary concerns of her children-

"Mummy," said Paolo without any warning, "I want to learn how to fight with a sword."

Zamira couldn't help herself; she stared at him for several seconds, and then cracked up laughing. Ordinary? Gods, how could any child born to this life be anything resembling ordinary?

"Sword," hollered Cosetta, possible future King of the Seven Marrows. "Sword! Sword!"

4

"Ezri, I—"

He saw the slap coming but it never occurred to him for an instant to try to prevent the blow from landing. She put all of her muscle into it, which was saying something, and tears blurred Jean's vision. "Why didn't you tell me?" "Tell you—"

She was sobbing now, but her next punch landed on his right arm with undiminished force. "Ow," he said. "What? What?" " Why didn "tyou tell me?"

It was almost a shout; he spread his hands to catch her fists. A punch from her to the ribs or solar plexus and he'd feel it for hours.

"Ezri, please. Tell you what?" He knelt on the narrow floor of her compartment, kissing her fingertips while she tried to yank her hands back. At last he let her, and knelt before her, arms lowered.

"Ezri, if you need to hit me, then by the gods hit me. If that's what you need, I won't fight you for a second. Not ever. Just… tell me what you want."

She balled her fists and Jean braced himself for another swing, but she sank to her knees and wrapped her arms around his neck. Her tears were hot on his cheeks. "How could you not tell me?" she whispered. "Anything you want to know, I'll tell you now, just—" "The poison, Jean."

"Oh," he moaned, slumping sideways against the rear wall of the cabin. She slid with him. "Oh, shit." "You selfish bastard, how could you not—"

"Drakasha told the council of captains our story," Jean said numbly. "You were there to hear it." "From her, not you! How could you do that to me?" "Ezri, please, it's—"

"You are the only thing," she whispered through the iron grip of her embrace, "the only thing on this whole fucking ocean that's mine, Jean Tannen. I don't own this ship. Hell, I don't own this cabin. I don't have a buried fucking treasure. I have no family and no title, not any more. And then I finally got to take something in return—" "And it turns out I have… one significant flaw."

"We can do something," she said. "We can find someone. Physikers, alchemists—"

"Tried, Ezri. Alchemists and poisoners. We need the antidote from Stragos, or an actual sample of his poison from which to create one." "And didn't I deserve to know? What if you" d—"

"Dropped dead in here one night? Ezri, what if a Redeemer had put his sword through my skull, or the crew had just murdered me on the day we met?"

"That's not you," she said, "that's not how someone like you dies, I know, I just know—" "Ezri, you" ve seen every one of my scars, you know I'm not—" "This is different," she said. "This is something you can't just fight."

"Ezri, I am fighting it. I" ve been fighting it every single day since the Archon put the fucking thing in me. Leocanto and I count the days, do you understand? I would lay awake at night the first few weeks, and I was sure I could feel it, doing something in me—" He gulped, and felt his own tears pouring down his face. "Look, when I'm in here it doesn't exist, understand? When I'm with you I can't feel it. I don't care about it. This is… it's like a different world. How could I tell you? How could I ruin that?"

"I would kill him," she whispered. "Stragos. Gods, if he was here right now I'd cut his fucking throat—" "I'd help. Believe me—"

She released her arms from around his neck and they knelt there in the semi-darkness, staring at one another. "I love you, Jean," she whispered at last.

"I love you, Ezri." Saying it was like allowing some sudden release of pressure behind his heart; it felt like breathing in at last after ages spent underwater. "You're like no one else I" ve ever known." "I can't let you die," she said. "It's not you… you can't—"

"I can do what I damn well please," she said. "I can get you to Tal Verrar. I can buy you time to get what you need from Stragos. I can help you kick his arse."

"Ezri," said Jean, "Drakasha" s right. If I can't get what I need from him… taking Stragos down is more important—" "Don't say it."

"I'll do it," he said. "It only makes sense. Gods, I don't want to, but if I have no choice I'll trade myself for him."

"Damn you," she whispered, and faster than he could react she leapt to her feet, seized him by the front of his tunic and slammed him against the starboard bulkhead. "You will not! Not if we beat him, Jean Tannen. Not if we win." "But if I have no choice—"

"Make a new choice, you son of a bitch." She pinned him to the bulkhead with a kiss that was pure alchemy, and his hands found their way down her tunic, down to her breeches, where he unhitched her weapons belt with as much gratuitous fondling of the areas not covered by it as he could manage.

She took the belt from his hands and flung it against one of the stiffened canvas walls, where it struck with a clattering racket and slid to the floor. "If there is no way, make a way, Jean Tannen. Losers don't fuck in this particular cabin."

He picked her up, making a seat for her from his crossed arms, and whirled her around so that her back was against the bulkhead and her feet were dangling. He kissed her breasts through her tunic, grinning at her reaction. He stopped to put his head against her chest; felt the rapid flutter of her heart beneath his left cheek. "I would have told you," he whispered. "Somehow."

"Somehow, indeed. "Man," " she said, " "what a mouse he is made by conversation—""

"Oh, it's not enough that I have to take this from you, now I have Lucarno chastising me—"

"Jean," she interrupted, pressing his head more firmly against her with a hug. "Stay with me." "What?"

"This is a good life," she whispered. "You suit it. We suit it. After we deal with Stragos… stay with me."

"I like it here," said Jean. "Sometimes I think I could stay for ever. But there are… other places I could show you. Other things we could do." "I'm not sure I'd adjust well to life on land—"

"Land has its pirates, same as the sea," he murmured between kisses. "I'm one of them. You could—"

"Belay this. We don't have to decide anything now. Just… think on what I said. I didn't bring you in here for negotiations." "What did you bring me here for?"

"Noise," she whispered, starting to pull his tunic off. "Lots and lots of noise."

5

Just before the midnight change of watches, Gwillem emerged from his new quarters into the narrow corridor between the ship's four smaller cabins. Scowling, clad only in his breechclout and a hastily thrown-on vest, he stepped across to the door of his old compartment. Bits of flannel rag were stuffed into his ears.

He pounded on the door several times. When no answer was forthcoming, he knocked again and hollered, "Treganne, you bitch, I'll get you for this!"

6

"Are her preparations almost complete, then?"

The two men met in the roofless ruins of a stone cottage, south of the city proper, so close to the edge of the eerie jungle that not even drunks and gazers would crawl out to it for shelter. It was near midnight, and a hard rain was falling, warm as spit.

"Got all our junk sold just this afternoon. Been taking on water and ale like crazy. More than enough food already. Once we scrape up everyone that wants to get scraped up tomorrow, I'm sure we're gone."

Jaffrim Rodanov nodded, and for the hundredth time cast his gaze around the broken house and its shadows. Anyone close enough to listen through the noise of the rain would have to be close enough to spot, he reckoned.

"Drakasha said… disturbing things when she called the council. What's she told you about her plans once she's back at sea?

"Nothing," said the other man. "Peculiar. Usually she gives us a good week to get our skulls busted and our purses sucked dry. She's got a fire under her arse and it's a mystery to the rest of us."

"Of course," said Rodanov. "She wouldn't tell you anything until you were on your way. But she's said nothing about the Archon? About Tal Verrar?" "No. So what do you think she's—"

"I know exactly what she's doing. I'm just not entirely convinced it's wise." Rodanov sighed. "She might call down a heap of shit on everyone in the Ghostwinds." "So now you—"

"Yeah." Rodanov passed a purse over, giving it a shake so the coins within could be heard. "Just like we discussed. Keep your eyes open. Note what you see. I'll want to hear about it after." "And the other thing?"

"Got it here," said Rodanov, hefting an oilcloth satchel with a heavy weight inside. "You're sure you have a place where this cannot be found—" "My sea-chest. Privilege of rank, right? Got a false bottom." "Good enough." Rodanov passed the satchel over. "And if I have to… use this thing…"

"Again, like we discussed. Three times what I just paid you, waiting for you once it's done."

"I want more than that," said the man. "I want a place aboard the Sovereign."

"Of course." Rodanov extended his hand, and the other man met his grip. They shook in the traditional Vadran fashion, clasping one another's forearms. "You know I can always use a good man."

"You're using him right now, hey? Just want to be sure I got a place to call home when all this is over. One way or another." Utgar's grin was the faintest crescent of white against the shadows.

7

North by east on the Sea of Brass, with the wet southern wind on the starboard quarter, the Poison Orchid dashed across the waves like a racing mare at last given her head. It was the third day of Aurim.

After a day lost laboriously navigating the twisting, rock-choked passage called the Trader's Gate, they had spent two more dodging reefs and islands, until the last jungle-crowned dome and the last volcanic smoke of the Ghostwinds had sunk beneath the horizon.

"This is the game," said Drakasha, addressing the group she'd assembled on the quarterdeck. Delmastro, Treganne, Gwillem, Utgar, Nasreen, Oscarl and all the skilled mates — carpenters, sailmakers and so forth. Mumchance listened from his place at the wheel, and Locke listened from the quarterdeck stairs, along with Jean and a half-dozen off-watch sailors. If they hadn't exactly been invited to hear the captain's little speech, neither had they been dissuaded. There was no point, when news would travel through a ship faster than fire.

"We're bound for Tal Verrar," said Drakasha. "We're going to allow our new friends Ravelle and Valora to conduct a bit of sneaky business ashore." "Bounty," said Mumchance.

"He's right," said Gwillem. "Begging your pardon, Captain, but if we haul up in sight of Tal Verrar—"

"If the Poison Orchid drops anchor, aye, I'm worth a lot of money. But if we make some adjustments to my pretty ship here and there, alter the sail plan a bit, swap my stern lanterns for something plainer and paint a false name in huge damn letters at the stern—" "What shall we call her, Captain?" asked the carpenter. "I'm partial to Chimera?

"That's cheeky," said Treganne. "But what's the gain for the rest of us in this "sneaky business", Drakasha?"

"Nothing I care to discuss before the deed is done," said Drakasha. "But the gain for all of us will be substantial. You might say we're going out with the blessing of the whole council of captains." "Then why aren't they out here lending a hand?" asked Nasreen.

"Because there's only one captain who's best at what she does." Drakasha gave an exaggerated curtsey. "Now, back to duties or to slacking, as you were. Spread the word to everyone."

Locke was slacking a few minutes later, alone with his thoughts at the larboard rail, when Jean took the spot beside him. The sea and sky alike were bronzing around the setting sun and the warm ocean air was nonetheless refreshing after the sweaty atmosphere of the Ghostwinds. "You feel anything strange?" asked Jean. "What, about the— Oh, you mean the poison. No. Can't say that I feel any better or worse than I have for a while. But, ah, I'm sure I'll try to get a message to you if I start vomiting up newts or something. Assuming you could hear anyone knocking at that cabin door—"

"Oh, gods. Not you, too. Ezri nearly tipped Gwillem over the taff-rail—"

"Well, let's be honest, people will notice the sort of racket that generally accompanies an attack upon the ship—" "And now you are about to have a sudden accident—"

"— by Jeremite Redeemers mounted on cavalry steeds. Where do you find the energy?" "She makes it easy," said Jean. "Ah." "She's asked me to stay," said Jean, looking down at his hands.

"Aboard the ship? Once all of this is over? Assuming there's anything left of us?" Jean nodded. "And by me, I'm sure she meant you as well—"

"Oh, of course she did," said Locke, not entirely curbing his reflexive tone of sarcasm. "What did you say?" "I asked her… I thought maybe she could come with us."

"You love her." Locke nodded to himself before Jean could answer. "You're not just marking time while we're out here. You" ve really fallen off the cliff, haven't you?" "Yeah," Jean whispered.

"She's good," said Locke. "She's got wits and fire. She has a real taste for taking things away from people at swordpoint, which is an asset in my book. And at least her you can trust at your back in a fight—" "I" ve always trusted you—"

"To be at your back in a fight, sure. But her you can trust not to embarrass everyone before it's over. You two won the day on the Kingfisher, not me. And I saw how she got kicked around — most people would have hugged their hammocks for a few days after that. She's too damn stubborn to stop moving. You two really are a good match." "You make it sound like it's her or you—" "Of course it doesn't have to be. But things will change—"

"Change, yes. And improve. This doesn't have to mean the end of anything."

"Take her with us? Three against the world? Start up the whole thing again, rebuild a gang? Haven't we had this conversation before?" "Yes, and—"

"I was doing my best impression of a drunken arsehole at the time. I know." Locke put his left hand atop Jean's right. "You're right. Things can change, and improve. We've seen it happen to other people; maybe it can happen to us for once. Soon as we finish the Sinspire game, we'll be richer than hell and no longer welcome in Tal Verrar's polite society. She could come with us… or you could stay with her—"

"I don't know yet," said Jean. "Neither of us knows. We've decided to deal with the question by ignoring it for the duration of the voyage." "Excellent idea." "But I want—"

"Listen. When the time comes, you make whatever choice you need to, and you don't think about me, understand? It is a fine match. Maybe you could do better—" Locke grinned to let Jean know that there was no actual need to knock his brains out of his skull."-but I know for a solid fact that she couldn't. Ever." So saying, he squeezed Jean's hand. "I'm happy for you. You" ve gone and stolen something back from this whole dead-end distraction Stragos has shoved us into. Hold it tight."

There was 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." "Urn… 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 labourer; 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 thed'r 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 docks. 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 sabres 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 for that idea.

"That's it. Stand in to Tal Verrar. Mumchance, put us about a mile off the Emerald Galleries. And raise an Ashmiri grey 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 south-east of the city would give them a good approach to the Cas-tellana, 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" U 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, urn, 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. Think of it as 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

Thed'r 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 low 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 neighbourhoods; 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 fitted 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" s 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's 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 Magisterial

"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 harbour 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 coffee houses 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 thed'r 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 burned paper scraps.

Their destination was easy enough to find; at the north-western end of the Castellana lay the entrance grotto to the Elderglass caverns from which thed'r 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 from 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 to them. If money alone could kill the Protector, the Priori would already have 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 colours. 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'll settle for a bit of patience while I explain further." "Yes," said the 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 towards what he believed to be south."… that way." "She dares?" "She's practising 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's 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."

"I see," said Stragos. "I would have preferred not to have her aware of my actual intentions—"

"If there are any survivors in the Ghostwinds," said Locke, "she can hardly speak of her role in the matter to them, can she? And if there are no survivors… who can she talk to at all?" "Indeed," muttered Stragos.

"However," said Jean, "if the two of us don't return quite soon, the Orchid will head for the open sea and you'll lose your one chance to make use of her."

"And I will have wasted the Messenger, and poisoned my reputation, and endured the abuse of your company all for nothing. Yes, Tannen, I'm well aware of the angles of what you no doubt believe to be a terribly clever argument." "Our antidote, then?"

"You" ve not earned a final cure yet. But you'll have the consequences further postponed."

Stragos pointed to one of the Eyes, who bowed and left the room. He returned a few moments later and held the door open for two people. The first was Stragos's personal alchemist, carrying a domed silver serving tray. The second was Merrain.

"Our two bright fires have returned," she said. She was dressed in a long-sleeved gown that matched the sea-green portions of Stragos's cape, and her slender waist was accented by a tight cloth-of-gold sash. Threaded into her hair was a circlet of red and blue rose blossoms.

"Kosta and de Ferra have earned another temporary sip of life, my dear." He held out his arm and she crossed over to him, taking his elbow in the light and friendly fashion of a chaperone rather than a lover. "Have they, now?" Til tell you about it when we return to the gardens."

"Some sort of Festa Iono affair, Stragos? You" ve never struck me as the celebratory type," said Locke.

"For the sake of my officers," said Stragos. "If I throw galas for them, the Priori spread rumours that I am profligate. If I do nothing, they whisper that I am austere and heartless. Regardless, my officers suffer far more in society when they have no private functions from which to exclude their jealous rivals. Thus I put my gardens to use, if nothing else."

"I weep again for your hardship," said Locke. "Forced by cruel circumstance to throw garden parties."

Stragos smiled thinly and gestured at his alchemist. The man swept the dome from the silver tray, revealing two white-frosted crystal goblets full of familiar pale-amber liquid.

"You may have your antidote in pear cider tonight," said the Archon. "For old times" sake."

"Oh, you funny old bastard." Locke passed a goblet to Jean, emptied his in several gulps and then tossed it into the air. "Heavens! I slipped."

The crystal goblet struck the stone floor with a loud clang rather than a shattering explosion into fragments. It bounced once and rolled into a corner, completely unharmed.

"A little gift from the Master Alchemists." Stragos looked extraordinarily amused. "Hardly Elderglass, but just the thing to deny rude guests their petty satisfactions."

Jean finished his own cider and set his glass back down on the bald man's serving tray. One of the Eyes fetched the other goblet, and when they were both covered by the silver dome once again, Stragos dismissed his alchemist with a wave.

"I… um—" said Locke, but the man was already out through the door.

"This evening's business is concluded," said Stragos. "Merrain and I have a gala to return to. Kosta and de Ferra, you have the most important part of your task ahead of you. Please me… and I may yet make it worth your while."

Stragos led Merrain to the door, turning only to speak to one of his Eyes. "Lock them in here for ten minutes. After that, escort them back to their boat. Return their things and see that they're on their way. With haste."

"I… but… damn," Locke sputtered as the door slammed closed behind the two Eyes. "Antidote," said Jean. "That's all that matters for now. Antidote."

"I suppose." Locke put his head against one of the room's stone walls. "Gods. I hope our visit to Requin goes more smoothly than this."

11

"Service entrance, you ignorant bastard!"

The Sinspire bouncer came out of nowhere. He doubled Locke over his knee, knocking the wind out of him in one cruel slam, and hurled him back onto the gravel of the lantern-lit courtyard behind the tower. Locke hadn't even stepped inside, merely approached the door after failing to spot anyone he could easily bribe for an audience with Selendri— "Oof," he said as the ground made his acquaintance.

Jean, guided more by loyal reflex than clear thinking, got involved as the bouncer came forth to offer Locke further punishment. The bouncer growled and swung a too-casual fist at Jean, who caught it in his right hand, then broke several of the bouncer's ribs with the heel of his left. Before Locke could say anything, Jean kicked him in the groin and swept his legs out from beneath him. "Urrrrgh-ACK," he said as the ground made his acquaintance.

The next attendant through the door had a knife; Jean broke the fist that held it and bounced the attendant off the Sinspire wall like a handball from a stone court surface. The next six or seven attendants who surrounded them, unfortunately, had short swords and crossbows. "You have no idea who you're fucking with," said one of them.

"Actually," came a harsh feminine whisper from the service entrance, "I suspect they do."

Selendri wore a blue and red silk evening gown that must have cost as much as a gilded carriage. Her ruined arm was covered by a sleeve that fell to her brass hand, while the fine muscles and smooth skin of her other arm were bare, accentuated by gold and Elderglass bangles.

"We caught them trying to steal into the service entrance, mistress," said one of the attendants.

"You caught us getting near the service entrance, you dumb bastard." Locke rose to his knees. "Selendri, we need to—"

"I'm sure you do," she said. "Let them go. I'll deal with them myself. Act as though nothing happened."

"But he… gods, I think he broke my ribs," wheezed the first man that Jean had dealt with. The other was unconscious.

"If you agree that nothing happened," said Selendri, "I'll have you taken to a physiker. Did anything happen?" "Unnnh… no. No, mistress, nothing happened." "Good."

As she turned to re-enter the service area, Locke stumbled to his feet, clutching his stomach, and reached out to grab her gently by the shoulder. She whirled on him.

"Selendri," he whispered, "we cannot be seen on the gaming floors. We have—"

"Powerful individuals rather upset about your failure to give them a return engagement?" She knocked his hand away. "Forgive me. And yes, that's exactly it."

"Durenna and Corvaleur are on the fifth floor. You and I can take the climbing closet from the third." "And Jerome?"

"Stay here in the service area, Valora." She pulled them both in through the service entrance so that tray-bearing attendants, studiously ignoring the injured men on the ground, could get on with earning festival-night tips from the city's least inhibited.

"Thank you," said Jean, taking a half-hidden spot behind tall wooden racks full of unwashed dishes.

"I'll give instructions to ignore you," said Selendri. "As long as you ignore my people." "I'll be a saint," said Jean.

Selendri grabbed a passing attendant with no serving tray and whispered a few terse instructions into his ear. Locke caught the words "dog-leech" and "dock their pay". Then he was following Selendri into the crowd on the ground floor, hunched over as though trying to shrink down beneath his cloak and cap, praying that the next and only person who'd recognize him would be Requin.

12

"Seven weeks," said the master of the Sinspire. "Selendri was so sure we" d never see you again."

"About three weeks down and three weeks back," said Locke. "Barely spent a week in Port Prodigal itself."

"You certainly look as though you passed some time on deck. Working for your berth?" "Ordinary sailors attract much less notice than paying passengers." "I suppose they do. Is that your natural hair colour?" "I think so. Swap it as often as I have and you start to lose track."

The wide balcony doors on the eastern side of Requin's office were open, but for a fine mesh screen to keep out insects. Through it, Locke could see the torchlike pyres of two ships in the harbour, surrounded by hundreds of specks of lantern-light that had to be spectators in smaller craft.

"They" re burning four this year," said Requin, noticing that the view had caught Locke's attention. "One for each season. I think they're just finishing the third. The fourth should go up soon, and then all will be well. Fewer people in the streets, and more crowding into the chance-houses."

Locke nodded and turned to admire what Requin had done with the suite of chairs he'd had crafted for him. He tried to keep a smirk of glee off his face and managed to look only vaguely appreciative. The four replica chairs were placed around a thin-legged table in a matching style, holding bottles of wine and an artful flower arrangement. "Is that—"

"A replica as well? I'm afraid so. Your gift spurred me to have it made."

"My gift. Speaking of which…" Locke reached beneath his cloak, removed the purse and set it down atop Requin's desk. "What's this?"

"A consideration," said Locke. "There are an awful lot of sailors in Port Prodigal with more coins than card sense."

Requin opened the satchel and raised an eyebrow. "Handsome," he said. "You really are trying very hard not to piss me off, aren't you?" "I want my job," said Locke. "Now more than ever." "Let's discuss your task, then. Does this Calo Callas still exist?" "Yes," said Locke. "He's down there." "Then why the hell didn't you bring him back with you?" "He's out of his fucking mind," said Locke. "Then he's useless—"

"No. Not useless. He feels persecuted, Requin. He's delusional. He imagines that the Priori and the Artificers have agents on every corner in Port Prodigal, in every ship, every tavern. He barely leaves his house." Locke took pleasure at the speed with which he was conjuring an imaginary life for an imaginary man. "But what he does inside that house. What he has! Locks, hundreds of them. Clockwork devices. A private forge and bellows. He's as insatiable about his trade as he ever was. It's all he has left in the world."

"How is a madman's detritus significant?" asked Selendri. She stood between two of Requin's exquisite oil paintings, leaning against the wall with her arms folded.

"I experimented with all kinds of things back when I thought I might have a chance to crack this tower's vault. Acids, oils, abrasives, different types of picks and tools. I'd call myself a fair judge of mechanisms as well as lockbreaking. And the things this bastard can do, the things he builds and invents, even with a magpie mind—" Locke spread his hands and shrugged theatrically. "Gods!" "What will it take to bring him here?"

"He wants protection," said Locke. "He's not averse to leaving Port Prodigal. Hell, he's eager to. But he imagines death at every step. He needs to feel that someone with power is reaching out to put him under their cloak."

"Or you could just hit him over the head and haul him back in chains," said Selendri.

"And risk losing his actual cooperation for ever? Worse — deal with him on a three-week voyage after he wakes up? His mind is delicate as glass, Selendri. I wouldn't recommend knocking it around." Locke cracked his knuckles. Time to sweeten the pitch.

"Look, you want this man back in Tal Verrar. He'll drive you mad — you may even have to appoint some sort of nurse or minder for him, and you'll definitely have to hide him from the artificers — but the things he can do could make it worthwhile a hundred times over. He's the best lockbreaker I" ve ever seen. He just needs to believe that I truly represent you." "What do you suggest?" "You have a wax sigil on your ledgers and letters of credit. I" ve seen it, making my deposits. Put your seal on a sheet of parchment—" "And incriminate myself?" said Requin. "No."

"Already thought about that," said Locke. "Don't write a name on it. Don't date it, don't sign it to anyone, don't even add your usual "R". Just write something pleasant and totally nonspecific. "Look forward to comfort and hospitality." Or, "Expect every due consideration.""

"Trite bullshit. I see," said Requin. He removed a sheet of parchment from a desk drawer, touched a quill to ink and scrawled a few sentences. After sprinkling the letter with alchemical desiccant, he looked back at Locke. "And this childish device will be sufficient?"

"As far as his fears are concerned," said Locke, "Callas is a child. He'll grab at this like a baby grabbing for a tit." "Or a grown man," muttered Selendri.

Requin smiled. Gloved as always, he removed the glass cylinder from a small lamp atop his desk, revealing a candle at its heart. With this, he heated a stick of black wax, which he allowed to drip into a pool on the sheet of parchment. Finally, he withdrew a heavy signet ring from a jacket pocket and pressed it into the wax.

"Your bait, Master Kosta." He passed the sheet over. "The fact that you're skulking at the service entrance and trying to hide beneath that cloak both suggest you're not planning on staying in the city for long."

"Back south in a day or two, as soon as my shipmates finish offloading the, ah, completely legitimate and responsibly acquired cargo we picked up in Port Prodigal." That was a safe lie; with dozens of ships offloading in the city every day, at least a few of them had to be carrying goods from criminal sources. "And you'll bring Callas back with you." "Yes."

"If the sigil isn't sufficient, promise him anything else reasonable. Coin, drugs, drink, women. Men. Both. And if that's not enough, take Selendri's suggestion and let me worry about his state of mind. Don't come back empty-handed." "As you wish."

"What then, for you and the Archon? With Callas in hand, you'll likely be back to this scheme for my vault—"

"I don't know," said Locke. "I'll be at least six or seven weeks away before I can come back with him; why don't you ponder how I can best serve you in that time? Whatever plan you deem suitable. If you want me to turn him over to the Archon as a double agent, fine. If you want me to tell the Archon that he died or something… I just don't know. My skull aches. You're the man with the big picture. I'll look forward to new orders."

"If you can stay this polite," said Requin, hefting the purse, "bring me Callas and continue to be so satisfied with your place in the scheme of things… you may well have a future in my service." "I appreciate that."

"Go. Selendri will show you out. I still have a busy night lying in wait for me."

Locke let a bit of his actual relief show in his expression. This web of lies was growing so convoluted, so branching and so delicate that a moth's fart might knock it to pieces — but the two meetings of the night had bought what he and Jean needed.

Another two months of life from Stragos, and another two months of tolerance from Requin. All they needed to do now was steal back to their boat without complication and row themselves to safety.

13

"We're being followed," said Jean as they crossed the Sinspire service courtyard. They were headed back toward the maze of alleys and hedgerows from which thed'r come, the little-used block of gardens and service paths behind the lesser chance-houses. Their boat was tied up at a pier along the inner docks of the Great Gallery; thed'r snuck up to the top of the Golden Steps on rickety stairs, ignoring the lift-boxes and streets on which a thousand complications might lurk. "Where are they?"

"Across the street. Watching this courtyard. They moved when we moved, just now."

"Shit," muttered Locke. "Would that this city's entire population of lurking arseholes shared just one set of balls, so I could kick it repeatedly"

"At the edge of the courtyard, let's make a really obvious, sudden dash for it," said Jean. "Hide yourself. Whoever comes running after us—" "Gets to explain some things the hard way."

At the rear of the courtyard was a hedge twice Locke's height. An archway surrounded by empty crates and casks led to the dark and little-used backside of the Golden Steps. About ten yards from this archway, acting in unison by some unspoken signal, Locke and Jean broke into a sprint.

Through the arch, into the shadowed alley beyond; Locke knew they had just moments to hide themselves. They needed to be far enough from the courtyard to prevent any of the Sinspire attendants from glimpsing a scuffle. Past the backs of gardens and walled lawns they ran, scant yards from buildings where hundreds of the richest people in the Therin world were losing money for fun. At last they found two stacks of empty casks on either side of the alley — the most obvious ambush spot possible, but if their opponents thought they were hellbent on escape, they might just ignore the possibility.

Jean had already vanished into his place. Locke pulled his boot dagger, feeling the hammer of his own heartbeat, and crouched behind the casks on his side of the alley. He threw his cloaked arm across his face, leaving only his eyes and forehead exposed.

The rapid slap of leather on stones, and then — two dark shapes flew past the piles of casks. Locke deliberately delayed his own movement half a heartbeat, allowing Jean to strike first. When the pursuer closest to Locke turned, startled by the sound of Jean's attack on his companion, Locke slipped forward, dagger out, filled with grim elation at the thought of finally getting some answers to this business.

His grab for the attacker was good; he slipped his left arm around the man's neck at the exact instant he shoved his blade up against the soft junction of neck and chin on the other side. "Drop your weapon or I'll—" was all he had time to say, however, before the man did the absolute worst thing possible. He jerked forward in an attempt to break Locke's hold, perhaps reflexively, not realizing the angle at which Locke's blade was poised. Whether it was supreme optimism or miserable foolishness, Locke would never know, as the man sliced half the contents of his neck open and died that instant, spewing blood. A weapon clattered to the stones from his limp fingers.

Locke put his hands up in disbelief and let the corpse drop, only to find himself facing Jean, who was breathing heavily over the unmoving form of his own opponent. "Wait a minute," said Locke, "you mean—"

"Accident," said Jean. "I caught his knife, we fought a bit and he got it beneath his own rib cage."

"Gods damn it, Locke muttered, flicking blood from his right hand. "You try to keep a bastard alive and look what happens—"

"Crossbows," said Jean. He pointed to the ground, where Locke's adjusting eyes could see the dim shapes of two small hand crossbows. Alley-pieces, the sort of thing you used within ten yards or not at all. "Grab them. There may be more of them after us."

"Hell." Locke grabbed one of the bows and gingerly handed the other to Jean. The little quarrels might be poisoned; the thought of handling someone else's envenomed weapon in the dark made his skin crawl. But Jean was right: thed'r need the advantage if they had other pursuers.

"I say discretion is a pastime for other people," said Locke. "Let's run our arses off."

They sprinted at a wild tear through the forgotten places of the Golden Steps, north to the edge of the vast Elderglass plateau, where they scrambled down flight after flight of nauseatingly wobbly wooden steps, glancing frantically above and below for pursuit or ambush. The world was a dizzy whirl around Locke by the middle of the staircase, painted in the surreal colours of fire and alien glass. Out on the harbour the fourth and final ship of the festival was bursting into incandescence, a sacrifice of wood and pitch and canvas before hundreds of small boats packed with priests and revellers.

Down to the feet of the stairs and across the wooden platforms of the inner docks they stumbled, past the occasional drunkard or beggar, waving their daggers and crossbows wildly. Before them was their pier, long and empty, home only to a long stack of crates. No beggars, no drunks. Their boat bobbed welcomingly on the waves, just a hundred feet away now, brightly lit by the glare of the inferno. Stack of crates, Locke thought, and by then it was too late.

Two men stepped from the shadows as Locke and Jean passed, from the most obvious ambush spot possible.

Locke and Jean whirled together; only the fact that they were carrying their stolen crossbows in their hands gave them any chance to bring them up in time. Four arms flew out; four men standing close enough to hold hands drew on their targets. Four fingers quivered, each separated from their triggers by no more than the width of a single droplet of sweat.

Locke Lamora stood on the pier in Tal Verrar with the hot wind of a burning ship at his back and the cold bite of a loaded crossbow's bolt at his neck. i4 He grinned, gasping for breath, and concentrated on holding his own crossbow level with the left eye of his opponent; they were close enough that they would catch most of one another's blood, should they both twitch their fingers at the same time.

"Be reasonable," said the man facing him. Beads of sweat left visible trails as they slid down his grime-covered cheeks and forehead. "Consider the disadvantages of your situation."

Locke snorted. "Unless your eyeballs are made of iron, the disadvantage is mutual. Wouldn't you say so, Jean?"

Jean and his foe were toe-to-toe with their crossbows similarly poised. Not one of them could miss at this range, not if all the gods above or below the heavens willed it otherwise.

"All four of us would appear… to be up to our balls in quicksand," said Jean between breaths.

On the water behind them, the old galleon groaned and creaked as the roaring flames consumed it from the inside out. Night was made day for hundreds of yards around; the hull was crisscrossed with the white-orange lines of seams coming apart. Smoke boiled out of those hellish cracks in little black eruptions, the last shuddering breaths of a vast wooden beast dying in agony. The four men stood on their pier, strangely alone in the midst of light and noise that were drawing the attention of the entire city. Nobody in the boats was paying any attention to them.

"Lower your piece, for the love of the gods," said Locke's opponent. "We've been instructed not to kill you, if we don't have to."

"And I'm sure you" d be honest if it were otherwise, of course," said Locke. His smile grew. "I make it a point never to trust men with weapons at my windpipe. Sorry." "Your hand will start to shake long before mine does."

"I'll rest the tip of my quarrel against your nose when I get tired. Who sent you after us? What are they paying you? We're not without funds; a happy arrangement could be reached." "Actually," said Jean, "I know who sent them."

"What? Really?" Locke flicked a glance at Jean before locking eyes with his adversary once again. "And an arrangement has been reached, but I wouldn't call it happy." "Ah… Jean, I'm afraid you" ve lost me."

"No." Jean raised one hand, palm out, to the man opposite him. He then slowly, carefully shifted his aim to his left — until his crossbow was pointing at Locke's head. The man he'd previously been threatening blinked in surprise. "You" ve lost me, Locke." "Jean," said Locke, the grin vanishing from his face, "this isn't funny." "I agree. Hand your piece over to me." "Jean—"

"Hand it over now. Smartly. You there, are you some kind of moron? Get that thing out of my face and point it at him."

Jean's former opponent licked his lips nervously, but didn't move. Jean ground his teeth together. "Look, you sponge-witted dock ape, I'm doing your job for you. Point your crossbow at my gods-damned partner so we can get off this pier!"

"Jean, I would describe this turn of events as less than helpful,1 said Locke, and he looked as though he might say more, except that Jean's opponent chose that moment to take Jean's advice.

It felt to Locke as if sweat was now cascading down his face, as though his own treacherous moisture was abandoning the premises before anything worse happened.

"There. Three on one."Jean spat on the pier. "You gave me no choice but to cut a deal with the employer of these gentlemen before we set out — gods damn it, you forced me. I'm sorry. I thought thed'r make contact before they drew down on us. Now give your weapon over." "Jean, what the hell do you think you're—"

"Don't. Don't say another fucking thing. Don't try to finesse me; I know you too well to let you have your say. Silence, Locke. Finger off the trigger and hand it over.""

Locke stared at the steel-tipped point of Jean's quarrel, his mouth open in disbelief. The world around him faded to that tiny, gleaming point, alive with the orange reflection of the inferno blazing in the anchorage behind him. Jean would have given him a hand signal if he were lying… where the hell was the hand signal? "I don't believe this," he whispered. "This is impossible."

"This is the last time I'm going to say this, Locke." Jean ground his teeth together and held his aim steady, directly between Locke's eyes. "Take your finger off the trigger and hand over your gods-damned weapon. Right now."